


but not a blue coat that's cruel

by alittleduck



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Pining, gay lesbian solidarity, like kind of!, literally so much pining you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittleduck/pseuds/alittleduck
Summary: Peter tried to move, but it felt like somebody had unleashed a boomerang into his skill and dear God, is this what hangovers felt like? Where was Sam? Oh, fuck. Sam.And then, stomach churning, remembering how he’d ended up drunk, at Dylan’s house, Peter rolled over and puked into Dylan’s trash can.“Dude,” came Dylan’s muffled voice. “Not cool.”Or, the one where Peter is starting college, getting his love life together and making better choices. Not in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

**NOW** **:**

**January 1st, 2019**

 

The first feeling that came to Peter as he came slowly into consciousness Monday morning wasn’t the strange bed, or the familiar-but-unfamiliar walls, or Dylan Maxwell lying next to him. It was the sensation of just waking up, of not yet being awake. He blinked his eyes -- into, he found, the bright sunlight pouring through the first floor window. This was not a dorm. That was his second thought. 

His third thought was about Dylan, who was lying there fully clothed, sneakers still on, half falling out of the bed they were both in. Peter tried to move, but it felt like somebody had unleashed a boomerang into his skill and dear God, is this what hangovers felt like? 

And then, stomach churning, Peter remembered how he’d ended up drunk, at Dylan’s house, on New Year’s Eve. 

He rolled over and puked into Dylan’s trash can. 

“Dude,” came Dylan’s muffled voice. “Not cool.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry man. I’ll clean that up later. Or something.”

Dylan just grunted back and Peter closed his eyes, waiting to fall blissfully back into unconscious unawareness. 

  
  
  


**THEN**

**September 18th, Orientation Day**

Peter was initially really, really worried about how things were going to go for him in college. Sam hadn’t gotten into UCLA and none of his other friends had even applied, so Peter was going to be starting over completely. From the bottom. Making new friends wasn’t going to be easy, he thought, and so he kept trying to remind himself that college wasn’t about making new friends, it was about learning. 

That’s probably why he was so surprised when he showed up on orientation day. 

“Oh, shit, Peter Maldonado? From that dick series? Damn, of course you go here!”

Peter had forgotten, somehow, about the popularity of  _ American Vandal _ . 

“Yeah, what’s up dude?” 

“I’m fucking good. Hyped to be here!”

“Me too,” Peter said, and then something remarkable happened: the guy asked him about classes and Peter answered and then somehow they got caught up in a whole conversation. He’d got seven resumes from other freshmen emailed to him that night -- wanting to ‘help out’ on his next project. That, Peter thought, could get annoying. 

Still, maybe this year was going to go better than he thought. Maybe it was going to be easy and fun.

Peter had been a fool. 

A blissfully ignorant fool. 

 

…

 

Thankfully, when Peter walked into his first class Monday morning the teacher seemed to have no idea who he was. The teacher was also nearing ninety and was squinting at Peter in that white person way where they’re trying to figure out your ethnicity and they can’t do it, so they just keep getting more and more confused. So Peter figured that the class was probably going to be fine. 

It’d probably be really weird if he had some sort of pressure to live up to, after  _ Vandal.  _

Sometimes, it made his stomach clench just thinking about how it. He didn’t want Vandal to be the only good thing he’s ever done. But mostly,  _ Vandal _ made him excited. It got him into UCLA and, well. Now that he was here, he could  _ really  _ start making films. 

The teacher opened his computer and started calling attendance. Peter almost didn’t hear him and ended up wheezing out some sort of muffled “here” at the last minute. A few kids turned and looked, but mostly people didn’t care. College was weirdly like high school that way. 

The part that wasn’t like high school at all was the part where he kept getting resumes. Some were even sent to his high school email which -- what? How did they even get that? 

“I don’t know, dude,” Sam replied that night, when Peter was bitching to him. “The internet is a scary place.”

“The internet --”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam cut him off. “The internet is just a tool, neither good or evil. I know. Hey, dude, you know what this means, though?”

“What?”

“You’re like, legit famous now.”

“I was like ‘legit’ famous before,” he told Sam. “We were on the Daily Show.”

Sam groaned. “Don’t remind me. My roommate’s set that clip as my wake up alarm in the morning.” 

Peter laughed. “My roommate’s a business major, so I don’t think he even knows who I am.”

“Ew, not a business major.”

“Exactly,” Peter said. “As an arts student --”

“Shut up, you’re barely an arts student -”

“Videos are art -”

“Not the way you do them,” Sam retorted joyfully. “Because you suck.”

“Yes, that’s why my sucky sucky videos made both of us famous. Because they sucked.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “I don’t know how you found the money to pay everyone in the world to lie about your show not-sucking.”

“It’s all that Netflix money,” Peter said. 

“Right, right!” Sam agreed. “It’s a whole conspiracy.”

“Our next case: what does Netflix do with its money? How much does it have and how much does it spend?”

“You know, dude, Netflix is like, super hush hush on that shit? Like they’re private as shit.”

“No shit,” Peter deadpanned. 

“Yeah, but like, for real dude.” They talked about Netflix and conspiracy theories for a few more hours, almost, until Peter had to go to bed. He went through his email again, forwarding the funnier messages to Sam, who sent him back sad snapchats about being replaced. 

That was one of the weirdest things about college: not seeing Sam every day. He’d gotten used to it, over the last two years of school, and then in the summer before college. And now it was just different. 

Ok, now that Peter thought about it, there were a lot of different things about college. He should consider making an itemized list, which he would’ve done weeks ago if his mom hadn’t been telling him to just relax and enjoy the experience. But maybe he should have. It would help him sort things out. 

But Peter didn’t want to give in to his compulsion to make organized lists just yet. He wanted college to be different than high school. 

“Pete!” His roommate was home. He checked his phone. 12:03am. Classic Josh. 

Peter looked up at the door. He hated when his roommate called him Pete. Of course, that was probably why Josh had done it. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, Josh?”

“Yo, you wanna come check out this movie with me later? It’s this student screening thing and I know you’re like mad into movies.”

“Um, I’m busy, so ..” Peter trailed off a little awkwardly, but Josh didn’t seem to mind. 

“Yeah, for sure!” he said. He walked in the room and sort of threw his backpack down by his bed, pulling out his laptop. 

“Oh, would you mind putting in headphones?” Peter asked. “If you’re going to watch something?”

“Yeah,” Josh agreed cheerfully, pulling out his headphones. Josh had never seen  _ American Vandal _ and knew nothing about film or Peter. He was a business major. They didn’t really have any problems with each other but they didn’t really have any common interests either. 

Peter rolled over and tried to sleep. It came easier than he expected, and when he woke up in the morning, he was already feeling excited to start the next day. 

 

…

 

He actually slept in, for once, not getting out of bed until almost 11 am, just in time for his English GE. He wasn’t excited and the class did not fall to disappoint completely. Honestly, sleeping in would’ve been a better use of his time, but it was the first week and Peter had actually never ditched a class ever in his life, so. 

The teacher had them ‘discuss’ in partners their favorite book they had read that summer. 

Peter didn’t read the books for school, most of the time. “Um,” he told his partner. 

“My name is Madison,” she said, instead of answering. 

“Peter. Maldonado. I don’t really read. That sounds bad. I just, don’t often read. I can’t think of a single book I read this summer.”

She laughed. “Me neither.”

“Oh, good. I mean, probably bad for literacy in America, but, good for me.”

A look a comprehension suddenly slid across her face. “Wait!” she began. 

“Yes,” Peter tried to refrain from rolling his eyes and mostly succeeded, “I am the Peter Maldonado from American Vandal. Yes, I really go here and yes, I’m really a freshman and yes, the doc is real.”

“What?” Madison asked. “No, I meant I recognized you from that diversity seminar. We were like the only non-white kids there.”

“Oh, God,” Peter said. 

“What’s American Vandal?”

“Oh God,” Peter repeated, helplessly and Madison laughed. 

“Come on, brag a bit.  _ Clearly _ it’s a big deal, Mr Famous.” 

“It’s this documentary me and my best friend did for Netflix.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, it’s -- it’s a real show. Look,” Peter pulled out his phone and googled American Vandal. “You can, like, check it out. If you want.” He showed her the phone. Madison let out a low whistle of appreciation. 

“I’m going to check that out when I get home tonight,” she told him. “I can’t believe you’re actually a famous person.”

“I was on Trevor Noah,” Peter told her modestly and was rewarded when she let out a screech. 

It was much less satisfying when their teacher glanced over at the two of them and raised an eyebrow. “Oh shit,” Madison told Peter, and then giggled. 

“It’s good,” he told her. “I don’t think the teacher cares all that much. I think he actually probably wants us to, like, bond and talk and stuff.”

The teacher in question had long brown hair tied ungracefully up into a long ponytail and stained light blue jeans. He was also wearing a peace sign t-shirt. 

“He looks like he believes in the synergy of the universe,” she told him and Peter snorted. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said. Then: “So, where are you from?”

“Oh,” she said, “I’m from Berkeley. Please, try not to gag, okay, I know everyone here hates it.”

“Why do people here hate it?”

“Oh, you know. It’s just so granola, you know?” Peter did not know. He didn’t say that though. 

“What do you think of LA?” He asked instead and before she could answer, the teacher called the class back to attention, explaining that he did have to lecture at some point, with this fake rueful grin. Peter shuddered internally and pulled out his laptop, taking notes quietly for the rest of the lecture. 

As he was packing up, Madison stopped to talk to him. 

“Hey,” she said, looking nervous. “I just wanted to ask you if you might want to study sometime? I’m also going to be studying film so. It’ll be nice to have a ally.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I mean, yeah, definitely. That sounds great. Why don’t you -- I can give you my number and you can, like, text me or -”

“That sounds good!” Madison replied and a few seconds later Peter heard his phone ding. 

He smiled. “I’ll see you later!” 

The rest of the week flew by, after that. He got dinner with Madison and a few of her friends from Berkeley High later that night and Peter didn’t really get a good opportunity to speak to Sam until Friday night. 

 

…

 

It’s Friday afternoon when Peter called Sam, with some sort of weird pang in his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone more than twenty-four hours without at least texting Sam. He wasn’t used to missing him like this. 

Sam picked up on the first ring, which filled Peter with a warm sort of delight. “Dude, I was just about to call you!” Sam told him. 

“I guess that just means I’m faster than you,” Peter told him, smiling. 

“In your dreams, Maldonado. I’m faster than you any day! I’m actually known as the Flash, because I’m the fastest man alive. That’s how fast I am.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were on the CW.”

“I’m the Flash in real life. Obviously.”

“Except without the abs?”

“Dude. Low blow.”

“I’m just being ‘objective’,” Peter quoted smugly at Sam. “Some people think it’s a character flaw, but, you know. I look it as a compliment.”

They kept bantering back and forth, for a few more minutes and it was so forgettable and mundane and Peter like his skin was settling at last. It was just so normal, so easy to fall back into. 

“Anyway, I met this girl -”

“Oh, Peter met a girl?” 

“Not like that -”

“Methinks the man denies it too much --”

“Methinks someone has been doing a bit too much Shakespeare and it’s rotted his brain -”

“Hey, don’t come for the Bard like that! He’s doing his best!”

“Sam,” Peter pointed out, “he’s dead. What’s he going to care?”

“It’s about integrity, Peter, you wouldn’t understand.” It was amazing, Sam’s ability to take the dumbest stances and turn them into national tragedies. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” he told Sam. “Anyway, Madison and I --”

“Oh, so her name is Madison, is it?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Peter told him fondly. “We don’t like each other -- or well, we do, just, you know. Platonically. Like, I don’t know, you and Gabi. Like friends.”

“Okay, but who made a seventeen hour long video segment broadcasted to over four million people ‘proving’ my crush on Gabi, though?”

“You said you didn’t like her!” Peter objected. 

“Dude, you are so missing the point,” Sam laughed. 

“Ok, fine then!” Peter felt flustered. “Like me and you, then. We’re completely platonic.”

When Sam took a second to respond, Peter immediately began to panic. Had he said something wrong? What had he even said? Was it --

“Alright, I believe you. You and Madison are completely platonic.”

“Completely!” Peter swore, not quite sure why this point was so important for him to convey to Sam. “Like --”

“Us, I know,” Sam finished. “You don’t need to explain any more, I believe you.”

“I just like being thorough,” Peter pointed out. 

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Sam responded. “I’m the one who had to stay up with you until four in the morning editing those vimeo posts, way back when.”

“It paid off, didn’t it? Oh, that’s actually how Madison and I met, she didn’t know who I was but get this  --”

“Oh, shit,” Sam said. “I actually have to get going for rehearsal like ten ago. Sorry, dude. I can call you back when it ends?”

“Yeah, no, go ahead,” Peter agreed.

After Sam hung up, Peter sat in his dorm alone for a bit, going over his homework assignments until Madison texted him. He looked at her text asking him out and felt a little torn. For whatever reason, it felt like he was ditching Sam, even though Sam was the one being weird and hanging up on him after just thirty-eight minutes into their bi-weekly call. Last Tuesday, they’d talked for four hours. Was it because he said -- was it -- was there something Peter did? 

Peter didn’t want to think about it. 

And anyway, Sam was probably going to be at rehearsal for hours. Peter couldn’t just sit in his dorm waiting for Sam to be done. 

He texted Madison back. It made him feel like something thick and heavy was compressing his stomach, or like some strangely shaped object had made its way into his throat, but it also made him feel a tingling kind of giddiness throughout his body, so it was all sort of a wash. 

He smiled at his reflection, and then left to meet Madison when she texted him back. 

 

…

 

A little buzzed on the alcohol at the party Madison had dragged him to and a little buzzed on the whole experience of going to a college party, Peter called Sam the second he got back to the dorm. 

“Dudeeee,” he said, drawing out the word. “College is fucking awesome, man. It’s great. I mean -- Madison --”

Sam cleared his throat over the phone. 

“Her friends are so cool,” Peter explained. 

“That’s great,” Sam said. “Were you -- have you been drinking?”

“Not much,” Peter said, because he couldn’t have Sam going around thinking he was cool. “It’s just this party that Madison’s friend was throwing that -- it was lowkey, so. It was fun, actually.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam said. “Let me get this straight: you, Peter Maldonado, went to a party. In college. And drank alcohol.” 

“Sam, I swear to God -”

“I’m telling,” Sam told him, faux seriously. “I’m going to call your mother up right now and report these -- these -- shenanigans. Ms. Maldonado would be so disappointed.” He tutted his tongue. 

Peter laughed, a large goofy smile fitting its way onto his face. “Keep my fucking mother out of it, Sam.”

Sam laughed back. “But she’s such a babe, I mean just a real dude magnet --”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I mean, what are you going to do to make me? I’m all the way in other city, so you can’t just beat it out of my this time.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I hit you lightly with a rolled up piece of paper.”

“You  _ beat _ it  _ out of me,” _ Sam emphasized. “I was scared. I’ll never forget that night.” 

“It was during the day,” Peter pointed out dryly.

“Maybe for you it was!” Sam exclaimed. “But for me it was a waking nightmare! Sure, it happened during the day. But that doesn’t mean the fear and pain didn’t come for me in the night! In fact, it still haunts my nights. Every night. I’m haunted.”

“You’re literally the most dramatic person I know,” he told Sam and he was kind of glad that there was no way Sam could see his face, because he doesn’t have to hide his smile or look down or avoid Sam’s eyes. He can just -- feel fond and smile. 

Sam scoffed. “Have you met yourself, Mr Impartial Documentarian?” 

“I am an impartial documentarian!” Peter objected. 

“An impartial drama queen,” Sam retorted. Badly. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Whatever,  _ theater _ boy. How’s Santa Barbara going?”

“Oh, you know. College. It’s a lot of work. I don’t …” Sam hesitated for a second. 

“What?” Peter asked. 

“I guess it’s just weird, not really knowing what I want to major in.”  
“Do you like any of your classes?” 

“They’re pretty much all Gen Ed’s, Peter.”

“So?”

“So, they’re shitty. And boring. And have so much fucking reading.”

“That sucks, dude.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “But at least it’s only one quarter. How’re your classes going?”

  
“Great, actually,” Peter admitted. He didn’t want to press Sam on school -- it wasn’t something they’d ever done or talked about before and Peter didn’t really know how. And Sam was cagey about emotions. So Peter told him about his classes, and about partying, and quietly worried that Sam wasn’t really sharing all that much in return.


	2. Chapter 2

_**FLASH FORWARD** _

**JAN 1 , 2019**

Peter woke up with an abrupt start. It was partially because his mouth was as dry as the sahara desert and mostly because Dylan was standing over Peter and doing his best impression of an alarm clock saying, “Peter! Peter! Peter! Peter! Peter! Peter!” until Peter scuttled away like some sort of crab like sea creature. 

“What?” Peter snapped in confusion, scrambling for purchase after nearly scooting sideways off the bed in his early morning terror. 

“Oh, my bad dude,” Dylan said. “I was legit worried you were dead. But your not, so. That’s good!”

Peter groaned and let his head sink deep back into Dylan’s pillow. 

“You want like, some Advil or something? You had a lot to drink last night. I mean, normally I have a lot to drink, but dude you really had a lot. Like more than me a lot.”

“Yes,” he told the pillow. 

“What?” Dylan asked. 

Peter reluctantly lifted his head back up into the light. “Yes,” he hissed. “Please. And -- some water.” He returned his head to the pillow. 

“You want bubbly or flat?” Dylan asked and Peter, almost sure Dylan was genuine,  thought about responding for a whole second before he just lifted his arm in the air and just flipped Dylan off instead. 

Dylan laughed, and left the room. Hopefully to get Peter water and Advil, but who knew. 

Five minutes later, vaguely sitting up thanks to the help of some pillows from Dylan, who hadn’t come back with either water or Advil but had come back with a bag of weed, and some thankfully closed shutters, Peter was feeling more like himself. He was doing his best to avoid thinking about last night, to avoid remembering why he was at Dylan’s house, but, you know. Other than that. He was feeling fine. Good, even. As long as he wasn’t thinking. As long as he wasn’t thinking about last night. 

“Oh,” Dylan said nonchalantly, “your boy Sam called like, ten times while you were out last night. You want me to call him back for you?” 

… why had Peter gone to Dylan Maxwell again? Of all the people in this world, why Dylan?   

“Peter?” Dylan waved a hand in front of Peter’s face. “It’s really fucking creepy, the way you’re being right now, Pete. It’s like you’re some sort of fucking body-snatcher thing, because like I’m asking you the questions and you’re acting like, super guilty, so it’s almost like I’m the camera-filming person now, you know, only you haven’t done any like, dick paintings. So really it’s just really tripping my brain up right now.” He paused, looking a little lost, like he wasn’t sure how he got here. He looked over at Peter and held up his bowl. “You want a hit?”

Peter hesitated, then nodded his head. “Yeah, sure.” He awkwardly adjusted his glasses. “You’re just going to -- you’re going to need to show me how to do it.”

“Cool, cool,” Dylan said. “You don’t want to call Sam back first?”

“I -- uh -- no,” Peter said and Dylan kind of frowned at him but didn’t really push. 

“I feel that, dude, it’s just, you know, Mac used to get mad when I’d light up without her. It’s like, fucking courtesy, you know?” 

“He’s, I just, Sam’s -- I don’t think Sam’s happy with me right now.”

“Oh, cause you got like super drunk and shit?”

“I -- no -- well, I mean, yes.”

“Alright, dude, but when you’re in the hole for a fifty dollar pot bouquet arrangement, like, I told you that shit, okay, I warned you.”

Peter did his best not to close his eyes or sigh. 

Dylan handed the bowl over to Peter and watched him struggle with it for at least two full minutes before leaning over to help. “Right on. Now, you just want your fingers right -- no -- now breath -- no stop -- hold -- let go -- You know what, dude, just like, breath in when I tell you, ok? I’ll do the rest. Damn, I can’t fucking believe it. It’s like you’ve never done this before.”

“Believe it,” Peter croaked, before trying to hack up a full lung while Dylan laughed at him in the background. 

 

* * *

 

 

**November 10th, 2018 **

A bunch of his friends stayed on campus during Labor Day weekend, but Peter didn’t. Peter went back home for Labor Day weekend. 

UCLA had been amazing. But the semester was moving at a dizzying pace. Peter had gone from calling Sam every night to calling him every other night to calling him every week. He talked to Dylan or Gabi or Kevin even less. And he couldn’t remember the last full conversation that he had with a friend from high school outside of those three. 

It felt like he was growing into this whole new person, with this whole new skin, which was amazing, but he was worried about what he was leaving behind. 

He’d called Sam on Thursday, and they’d talked, but Peter had to get going for Film Society. And the week before that was tech week for Sam. 

They still texted every day, but it was hard not being in the same school as Sam. Him and Madison were becoming mad tight, but it wasn’t like what he and Sam had. That was different, somehow. It’s like they were speaking their own language, sometimes. It was comfortable and relaxed, and Peter missed that. 

So, Peter came home for that Labor Day weekend. 

The second his greyhound pulled into the rest stop, about a mile and a half away from his home, Peter snapped Sam. They’d made plans to meet around three, but it was three twenty now, so. Peter was definitely going to be late. 

He’d thought that three would be a safe time to meet, because his greyhound was supposed to arrive around noon. 

Peter’d expected the greyhound to be late, but not this late. It was the hordes of college students, probably. Greyhound probably hadn’t accounted for the traffic that said hordes would cause by returning home for Labor Day weekend. It’d actually probably be interesting to look into how greyhound gave their expected hour times -- did they use google maps? I mean, they were around before, so is it just an average? Do they ever calculated traffic into it or does a trip from New York to Boston always take 5.5 hours, no matter? 

His phone binged. Perfect. Sam. But first -- 

“Honey!” He mom called out, waving to him from her car. Peter ducked his head, abashed, and ran over to the passenger's side seat. 

“Hey, mom,” he said. 

“Tell me everything,” she said, and fuck, it was great being back home. 

 

…

 

When his mom dropped him off at Starbucks, Peter figured he’d have twenty, thirty minutes to kill until Sam got there. Sam was, much like the Greyhound bus, reliably late. To everything. Even the morning show. Personally, Peter thought it was his hair. Sam was  _ very  _ particular about his hair, which was definitely weird for a straight guy. 

He’d expected to have a solid twenty or thirty minutes to wait, but instead he got zero minutes to prepare, because Sam was already there. 

“Sam?” Peter asked. “What are you doing here?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“No, like, on time,” Peter clarified. 

Sam made a faux offended gesture at Peter. “Ouch, Maldonado. You really know how to hit where it hurts.”

“You’re like, never on time,” Peter pointed out. 

“You’re just doing that Peter thing where you’re jealous because I was here before you.”

“I don’t --”

“You so do --”

“Okay, so I do --” 

“So I win?” Sam asked. 

“No,” Peter told him, “because you still haven’t explained why you’re early.”

“Oh,” Sam said, then shrugged. “Easy. I’m just better than you and also everyone else.”

“Fuck you,” Peter told him and Sam grinned back. 

They went inside. “So,” Peter started. “Why’d you want to meet for coffee?”

Sam froze. “What?” 

“You said you wanted to meet for coffee, dude. Like, why? You could’ve just come over to my house, you know, like usual.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to do things like usual,” Sam said, whatever that meant, wearing one his weird Sam faces that was like oddly intense but also oddly scared. 

Peter scoffed. “What, because we’re all adult now?” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, face returning to normal. “And because of that Netflix cash money.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Just because you have money, doesn’t mean you have to spend it.”

“Are you telling me that if you had a million dollars, you’d wouldn’t spend it?”

“Yeah, I’m saying --”

“Like you’d save all that one point zero million cash dollars?”

“Well, -”

“You wouldn’t spend a single cent of that? No matter what, you would just save that money until you turned like ninety and keeled over and fucking just died?”

“Yes,” Peter said, mostly just to be contrary. “That’s exactly what I said. It’s amazing how well you capture my internal monologue.”

Sam bowed. “It’s been a life long study so personally, I’d like to thank my mom, the academy, and your neurotic little mind.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. He stiffled his impulse to hug Sam and just headed into Starbucks instead. 

They ordered their coffee: Sam got a frappuccino, and Peter just got a black coffee, because he didn’t know what to get, because he didn’t go to coffee shops regularly. Which reminded him that this whole coffee thing was weird. Which meant that Sam wanted to meet him here for a reason. Which meant … Peter didn’t know what that meant yet. 

He bit his lip, and sipped his coffee. 

Sam gave him a weird look and Peter just glared back. It was Sam’s fault they were  _ here  _ in  _ this _ coffee shop, drinking weird and disgusting black coffee. 

“Why’d you get it black, anyway?” Sam asked, crinkling up his nose. 

“Are you like, reading my mind or something?” 

“It’s just obvious, dude. Like, I mean, it’s your face. It’s just a bad face. And whenever you, like, eat or drink something you don’t like, you get this sort of expression of your face, like when you were digging through the cat shit in the alley, you know. Like you’ve smelled something bad but like you don’t want to bother anyone with it.”

_ What? _ Peter scoffed. “No, I don’t --”

“Yeah, dude, you do --”

“And -- and why are you -- how did you know that, anyway?” 

“Because I spent more than eight hours watching you edit a video of yourself smelling cat shit in an alley?”

Peter had to admit that was a good answer. For some reason, it made his heart beat faster anyway, which was stupid, because Peter had nothing to be nervous about. It was just Sam. 

“Okay, okay, you have a point.”

“Of course I have a point dude, but you never answered the question.”

“Why the black coffee? I don’t know -- I mean, I do, but. Okay, so. I guess mostly it’s just this joke Madison makes. It’s from a movie, I think, or something, but she says that the only way to drink coffee is black, and I. I didn’t know what else to order?” Peter finished lamely. 

“Wow,” Sam said after a pause.  _ “Great _ story. Really interesting.”

“It’s funnier when she’s here,” he explained, but Sam just made another face. “She’s super funny. It’s cool, because she’s also into film, but she’s into like satire and post-moderism and --”

“If you love her so much, why don’t you marry her?” Sam said it like he was joking, but he also sounded kind of weird.

Peter shrugged it off. “I don’t want to marry her, Sam, she’s just really cool -”

“I’m just saying,” Sam said. “Just let me do the best man’s speech.” Then: “Oh, God, that really would be sad, wouldn’t it?”

“Fuck you, you should be so lucky.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, Peter,” he said dramatically, putting a hand on his hip, “you’d be lucky to have  _ me _ , darlin’.”

“What -- what was that Sam? Your Scarlett O’Hare impression?” 

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Because if so, it was bad, Sam.  _ Bad _ .”

“I’m going to remember these words when I’m a super famous movie star millionaire actor, and I’m not going to invite you to my sex dungeon orgies with Kate and Leo.”

“Please, Kate and Leo will be too old for sex dungeon orgies by the time you’re famous.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Sam told Peter solemnly. 

“I find your clear delusions about famous celebrities in Titanic and sex dungeon involvement upsetting,” Peter replied. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam told him. Then he perked his head up. “Maybe you’d be more interested if I invited Madison --”

“I’m -- I don’t --” Peter struggled, and took a breath. Maybe -- maybe. “I just, she’s great,” Peter finished. 

Sam looked like he didn’t believe him. Peter knew, objectively, that he should just say that he was -- that he liked guys. He should. Sam wouldn’t care. It was just -- it just made him feel like there was a live rodent running around his small intestine and his throat kind of would close up a bit. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly instead. “Anyway, with the rate that housing prices are going up right now --”

“Oh, my God,” Sam rolled his eyes fondly. 

“I’m just saying!” Peter said sadly. “There’s no way you could afford the real estate for a proper celebrity sex dungeon anymore.”

Sam sighed. “Just another industry killed by millennials: the celebrity sex dungeon industry. And I was so close to finally having an orgy.” 

“Oh, shit, that reminds me -- there’s this rumor going around that, like, there was an orgy in the basement of my dorm building.”

“What?” Sam asked laughing. “There’s no way that’s fucking true.”

“Mike -- Madison’s friend -- swears it’s true, but he won’t tell me who.”

“Maybe you should investigate that next,” Sam told him. “The mysterious case of the orgy last year. Who was there? How many people came and how many people orgasmed? Who sucked whose dick? What percentage of those dicks were circumcised --”

“I’m literally going to kill you one day,” Peter told Sam. “ _ American Vandal _ was serious journalism --”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Sam agreed. “I’m just saying -- it’d be a good one.”

“Yeah well,” Peter said. “We were cancelled.”

“Fuck Netflix,” Sam said. 

“It’s not -- I mean, it sucks but --”

“Are you really defending fucking Netflix?” 

“No, I’m just -- I guess it’s for the best, okay? Like, now I get to focus on college and I can move, you know. Into other things.”

Sam nodded. “That makes sense, dude.”

“It’s just -- it’s so fucking cool, being at UCLA. They get like, actually film professors to come and talk to us sometimes, did you know that?”

“That sounds dope.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s good. It’s kind of nice being on my own, too, you know?”

“Except for the roommate thing,” Sam pointed out. “My roommate’s so annoying, he’s like always bringing his girlfriend back into the dorm and then I can’t get back in for hours. And, okay, so I’ve got no proof, but I’m pretty sure once, they fucked in my bed.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Literally traumatizing.”

“Maybe not literally --”

“Literally traumatizing,” Sam repeated. “I don’t want to know that my roommate’s dick has touched my sheets. That’s my roommate’s sperm --”  
“Stop! Stop saying words right now!” Peter practically shrieked, wishing he’d had the wherewithal to cover his ears sooner. “Also, why don’t you just wash them?”

“Ugh,” Sam told him. “That sounds like a lot of work.”  
“You mean -- you -- you haven’t -- you think your roommate fucked in your bed and your first move wasn’t disinfecting the whole room?”

“Eh,” Sam shrugged. “He’s probably had sex all over that too.”

“All the more reason,” Peter pointed out, in an increasingly loud voice, “to  _ disinfect the whole room.” _

“Eh,” Sam repeated and Peter dropped his head into his hands. 

“Sometimes, I swear,” he told Sam. “It’s just like a lost cause with you.”

“Yep!” Sam agreed cheerfully. “Anyway, enough about me.” 

“No, no, please. Do go on. I want to hear more about your roommate’s sex life.”

“Oh, really? Because I could --”

“No,” Peter said and they both laughed. They kept talking, first about school and then just sitting there and exchanging inside jokes, remembering Hanover. Sam didn’t really say much about school, beyond hating his roommate or his classes. Peter wanted to ask, but they’d never been like that, sharing things like that before. So Peter didn’t know how. He didn’t know if Sam would even want him to ask. 

They kept talking like that for hours -- until the Starbucks closed, and they had to relocate to the parking lot. Peter still didn’t want to go home -- he wanted to stay and to keep talking with Sam. It felt like they weren’t done saying things, they weren’t done reconnecting. They needed more time. 

“Here,” Peter said, and gestured over to the side of the building. Sam dutifully followed him. The sun was just starting to set, staining the sky a deep red color and the parking lot was almost completely abandoned. He could see across what was probably miles of desert. It was just wide, empty space. Nothing there. It felt like they were alone, at the edge and the end of the world and everything was spilling out behind him, sprawling cities and suburbs and lights giving way to ghosts and silence and nothingness. To be populated, maybe, by him. To be created. To be changed. 

Sam stood next to him. Peter felt Sam’s body heat coming up from behind and then settling right next to him, his shoulder almost but not quite touching Peter’s. Peter felt a wild impulse to just grab Sam’s hand and hold it to his chest. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. 

“Dude,” Sam asked, “what are we waiting for? It’s going to get cold as shit in a minute.”

“I --” Peter didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know,” he told Sam honestly. “It just feels so weird being back.” He tensed, waiting for Sam to laugh or make a joke, like he always did. 

To his surprise, though, Sam gave a deep sigh. “Yeah,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

“You -- really?”

“I mean,” Sam said, kind of quietly. “It’s just really different than high school. Like, nobody knows who I am, dude. And the drama people don’t really care about me, because I’m a freshman so I’m just doing like, lame unimportant stuff.”

“A couple people recognize me from Vandal,” Peter admitted. He took his left hand out of his pocket to fiddle with his sweater strings. It was closer to Sam and Sam’s warmth, now. 

Sam shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m not complaining. It’s just. Weird. It’s different.”

“It’s kind of nice, though,” Peter said. “That it’s different. I mean, no one knows us, right? So we can kind of just be.”

Sam nodded, but he face stayed troubled and lined as he looked out into the darkening sky. 

“Like, okay,” Peter said, determined. “You were this person in high school, but like -- that’s not who you, you know, have to be. Anymore. We both were these people, okay. Sam and Peter. But we don’t have to be that way anymore, you know? No one’s going to know about the one time you did something weird or embarrassing or whatever. It’s like, it’s different.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “but no one’s going to have had that same terrible English teacher or know the same crazy thing that happened the other night, you know?” 

Peter hadn’t really noticed that. He’d never really connected with people much in high school anyway, so he’d never had those moments really. People were nice to him and everything, especially after Vandal, but no one ever really bitched about classes or school drama with him. 

He’d mostly been unnoticed and sometimes he forgot that it wasn’t the same for Sam. 

He’d been silent for too long, because Sam spoke again. “I know, it’s like so fucking dumb, but everything just feel so fucking different. I know, lame, but like. And like, I guess I get it, how that’s kind of a good thing or whatever, but it just feels like it kind of sucks right now.”

“I mean, but dude, think about it. It’s like this unlimited acting job, right? It’s like you’ve just taken a new role in a play, or whatever, and you gotta. You know. Get over the stage fright and break an elbow or whatever. Give the first sonet.” 

“Wow,” Sam said. “Do you know anything about theater?”

“No,” Peter replied, biting his check to keep from smiling. 

“Because that was terrible.” Sam told him. 

“As terrible as your Scarlett O’Hara impression?” Peter asked. 

“Worse,” Sam promised. “You could not have gotten more things wrong. And what the fuck, was that you trying to comfort me? Were you trying to win me over with an acting metaphor?” 

“Yes?” Peter asked more than said. 

“Low blow, Pete. You know acting metaphors are my weakness.” 

“Yeah, well, you know me. Anything to win,” Peter said, dryly, and Sam laughed. 

“You could join an organized sports team, you’ve got so much competitive spirit,” Sam replied. “Maybe even cheer team.”

“Sam,” Peter told him seriously, “I think we both know that out of the two of us, you’d be the one to do cheer team.”

“Why, Peter,” Sam responded. “Are you trying to say something?” 

“I’m trying to say you’re a strong, independent woman, Sam Ecklund and if you want to be cheer captain, by George I just know you can do it!”

“Please never use that high fake girl voice again.”

“Why not? Is it because I do it so well?” Peter asked, in a fake high girl voice. 

“I was going to say it’s because I’m worried you’re permanently destroying my ear drums but yeah, sure, let’s go with yours.”

“Fuck you,” Peter said. “At least it’s better than your singing voice.”

“My singing voice would make angels weep,” Sam proclaimed. 

“Yeah, from pain,” Peter retorted and the both of them laughed a bit again before falling silent. Peter could still feel Sam’s shoulder, right next to his. The sun was almost completely set, and the night was starting to get cold. If he wanted to, he could just lean forward and tap Sam’s shoulder with his --

“We should get going,” Sam said. “It’s basically dark.” 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “You call the Lyft.”

“One sec,” Sam told him. “Oh, fuck, it’s going to take like ten minutes.”

Peter shrugged, leaned forward and gently tapped Sam’s shoulders with his own. “I don’t mind,” he said and they stood under the setting sun together, silently waiting. 

 

… 

 

By the time that Peter got home, it was completely dark outside. He shivered slightly in the rapidly cooling night. It was colder, without Sam’s body heat next to his. His mom was waiting up at the kitchen when he got back. 

She always did that. No matter how hard she was working, or how much, she never went to bed until he did. She’d always done the most to support him -- when he was younger, he’d make her perform these plays that he wrote. And before  _ Vandal _ , she appeared in all of his other -- attempts. His other movies.  

Before he’d met Sam in high school, Peter hadn’t had many friends. He’d had a best friend Joanie, who used to live next to him in elementary school who would always go exploring with him -- but she moved away in seventh grade, and Peter didn’t really meet anyone new until freshman year of high school when he’d signed up to do the Morning Show. 

That’s how he met Sam, actually. It was before the show or the meeting had started, and Gabi had dropped by to wish Sam luck and she leaned over and said something that just made Sam fall to his knees laughing. 

Peter had wanted to be Sam’s friend right then. He’d wanted to be both of their friend’s. They looked like they were so happy. When Peter was a baby, he’d hardly ever spoken, just looked up at the world with big round eyes, taking things in. And even with Joanie, people were always telling Peter to loosen up, to not take the rules so seriously, to just relax. One of the last times Peter had seen his dad, before he stopped coming around, his dad had told him to get over himself and develop a sense of humor. 

He had said that, because he was trying to make them all watch this dumb slapstick movie and Peter had said that it was stupid and uncreative and his dad had gotten mad. 

He still paid them child support but as Peter got older, his dad came around less and less. That movie night had been when Peter was in seventh grade. It was one of the last weekends Peter had spent at his house.  

Even his mom kind of said the same thing, only it wasn’t the same at all. Sometimes she would stroke his head at night and tell him that she wished he didn’t take the world so seriously and Peter would want to say that he agreed and he wished he didn’t either. 

He wouldn’t say that, and she would just kiss him on the forehead and tell him that it wasn’t that she didn’t love him and the way he saw the world, it’s just that she wanted him to be happy. 

After Joanie moved away, she would ask him about his happiness a lot. Peter would usually just shrug and nod and then go upstairs to his room to listen to music or watch tv. 

And then, in the summer before eighth grade, she’d signed him up for a video making class at the community center, and Peter, still growing into his body, felt at home. It was one of his favorite summer memories -- even now. Warm, and hazy, learning how to turn a camera on the world. 

And when he felt that same warmth, at 8am on a Monday morning, his first week of high school, he walked over to it, and introduced himself. He and Sam had been friends ever since. 

* * *

 

**November 15th, 2018**

Peter had been practicing all day, waiting for Madison to get back from Berkeley. He’d been practicing ever since he’d gotten back from Labor Day weekend, technically. You could even say he’d been practicing his whole life. 

It was going to go so well. He was going to talk about seeing Sam and make some sort of joke about Sam thinking he had a crush on her and how it was funny, because he liked guys. It was going to be smooth. It was going to be cool. He wasn’t going to say the word gay. He would say the thing about liking guys, and they would move on and they would never talk about it again and it was going to be perfect. 

He knew that, because of all the practicing. 

He practiced in front of the mirror. He practiced in his head. He -- well, he didn’t write it down, but he thought about writing it down, for two seconds before he thought about someone finding it, which kind of was the whole point but filled him with a terror so dry that he went through every single notebook in his dorm for accidental incriminating notes he might’ve written at some point. 

Madison came over at some point during the middle of his frantic search and just stood there, leaning up against the dorm frame and smirking at Peter. 

“Looking for something?” she asked. 

“I’m gay,” Peter replied, and then froze. 

Madison blinked and opened her mouth. But before she could say anything, Peter cut her off. 

“I don’t like you. I mean -- I don’t dislike you, I just don’t like you like you, you know? Like like like you? Like  _ like _ you?”

“That’s a lot of likes,” Madison commented dryly. “And besides, I knew you were gay. Thanks for tell me though.”

“It’s because friend Sam thought that I liked you, as in crush liked -- oh that’s the word -- and I didn’t -- wait what?” 

Madison laughed. “I knew,” she said, “but thanks for telling me.”

“What? How?”

Madison shrugged. “The fact that you’ve never checked my boobs was a clue,” she said laughing. “They are pretty big after all. But mostly, I guess I just assumed because, like, you don’t talk about girls ever and, yeah.”

“Oh,” Peter said. Then: “Would you believe I had a whole speech planned out?”

“Yes,” Madison told him immediately. “In fact, if you told me you  _ didn’t  _ have a whole speech planned out and practiced seventeen thousand times in front of the mirror, I wouldn’t believe you.”

Peter blushed. 

“It’s okay, though,” she said, taking pity on him. “When I came out to my parents, I literally just wrote them a letter and left it on the kitchen table. But no one actually noticed it, because they just thought it was some school assignment or something they’d already read.”

Peter tried to nod understandingly. 

“So, anyway, I’m just sitting there, getting more and more tightly wound -- because you know, it’d been a week, I’d assumed they’d read it. And if they haven’t said anything -- what did that mean? Did they not approve? Did they approve? Was this there way of expressing disappointment? Basically,” she looked at Peter, “I was you.”

“Rude,” Peter said, but let her continue. 

“It was Friday night, right? And my mom is tired, she’s worked a long shift, blah, blah, blah. We’re doing the dishes together and I asked if she could hand me the soap. And she kind of snapped at me to get it myself. And then I yelled, ‘Why, because I’m a lesbian _?’  _ and fled the kitchen.”

“Oh my God,” Peter said. 

Madison laughed. “Yeah, she followed me back out to my room and was like, ‘Madison, I just didn’t want to get up and get the dishwashing soap. Now, come back and help me with dinner.’ And I came back and you know, obviously asked her what happened with the letter and why she hadn’t said anything, and then she looked me dead in the eye and said ‘What letter?’ and I literally felt my  _ soul _ leave my  _ body _ , Peter. She hadn’t even  _ seen  _ the letter.” 

Helpless, Peter started to laugh. “Holy shit,” he said. 

“I know,” Madison agreed, still smiling. “So just try and have a more awkward coming out than that Peter Maldonado. Just try.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s a challenge? Madison?”

Madison just laughed at him. 

 

...

 

They started commiserating a bit more after this. They’d be hanging out, watching movies and talking classes and then Madison would lean over and point out a cute girl or ask Peter if he thought someone was gay or not, or just talked. It’s a way to be open that was so almost surprisingly normal that Peter sometimes felt he hadn’t come out at all. 

For something that had made Peter so fucking uncomfortable for so many fucking years, it was kind of an anti-climatic let down at first. 

“Oh, my God,” Madison burst into Peter’s dorm room, interrupting his thoughts. “I was on this date with this real fucking hottie, I mean like an eleven out of ten and everything was going so sexy until she fucking apologized for like, homophobia in the Muslim community or whatever the fuck --  

“Wait --”

“I know! I had to sit there in her dorm with my whole ass mouth open and then tell this bitch I was just solidly not Muslim. And she looked like, so confused Peter so I was like, you’re girl is just a fourth generation filipino and God knows what else girl trying to get by with this Southern California tan.”

“What did you do after that?” He asked. 

“Well, she kind of laughed and then tried to move on or whatever, but it was hella awkward so I just fucked her and left.”

Peter blinked. “I mean, like.” He tried to think of a nice way to say it. “Why?”

“Did you miss the first part of the story? She was _stupid_ hot, Peter. Stupid _hot_. I’ll Sleep With Her Even Though She’s An Ignorant White Girl Hot.”  
Peter raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, don’t give me that judgement,” Madison told him. “Haven’t you ever gotten with any white boys?” 

“No,” Peter said. 

It was Madison’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “And what about the one that you’re always facetiming even though we had plans to meet thirty minutes ago and the movie already started but, like, I’m not bitter or anything it’s  _ fine _ ? What’s his name, Sam?”

Peter coughed. “We’re not like that. And Sam wouldn’t -- he wouldn’t say anything, you know. Like that. And anyway. I’ve never been on a date before,” he told her. 

Madison tilted her head to the side, considering this. “That’s sad, but also, respect,” she said eventually. “You’re not desperate. That shows good character. You know, honestly, I just have the best taste in friends and in people.”

“Um, not in people you sleep with,” Peter objected. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Madison replied. 

So. Things were a little different sometimes, but mostly Madison was still the best person Peter had met in college, the sort of person who made him walk around wondering why she had chosen him. 

* * *

 

 

_**FLASH FORWARD** _

**JANUARY 1st, 2019**

Peter had thought, for some reason, that doing drugs would be more dangerous or more fun or more -- something. More extreme, really. But now, he just felt like he wanted to sit still for a minute and just like, look out the window. It was so bright outside. Why didn’t he go outside more?

Maybe his next movie should be about that. The indoor generation. Wow, that was so sad. He looked back out the window. It was still so pretty and just so calm. This wasn’t bad it all. All those drug PSAs had lied to him. 

He licked his lips. Oh. His mouth was so dry. He could feel his gums with his tongue. They felt so weird, holy shit. 

“Dylan,” Peter said. 

“Yeah dude?” Dylan perked up. 

“Nothing,” Peter said. He giggled. “I forgot.”

Dylan giggled back. 

Wow, Peter thought again. Drugs are so fun. He giggled a bit again, still staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were blinking open and closed which felt weird. He could feel his eyelashes against his cheeks. He closed his eyes. They were so soft. He didn’t know eyelashes were soft. He wondered if Sam -- he wasn’t thinking about that. 

But, apparently, even though drugs were fun, they were also  _ terrible _ , because now Peter couldn’t stop thinking thoughts about Sam which were very bad no good thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about him or his lips or his -- which made him think about the gnawing emptiness in a pit somewhere in his stomach, the acid reflux of guilt and shame and desire to curl under Dylan’s comforter and never come back out. 

The world seemed so much greyer, when he opened his eyes. It was like someone had muddied the entire world, run a dirty pencil eraser and tried to get a rid of it all. 

“Move over,” Dylan said, pushing gently at Peter. 

“What?” Peter asked. 

“The sun went behind the cloud,” Dylan said. “Dude, it’s so cold I feel like my toes are turning into little mice and running off.”

A laugh started bubbling. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m cold,” Dylan complained again. “The sun -- I’m cold.”

Peter looked back out the window. Dylan was right. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud. That’s why everything had been grey. But it was coming back out. It would be headed out, any minute now. 

Peter moved over, but Dylan didn’t get in. 

“I’m going to put on some music now, dude,” he said instead, “because it’ll really fucking blow your mind now that you’re smoking. Like, I didn’t even think music was that cool until I listened to it high.”

“Mh,” Peter hummed in agreement, appreciating the vibration echoing throughout his bones. He hummed again. Wow. He --

“Peter, shut up,” Dylan told him. 

\-- hummed quieter. 

Then Dylan pressed play on some music that Peter had absolutely never heard before and he forgot all about the humming. At least for the time being. He closed his eyes again, and felt himself drifting back and forth, in and out of sleep, as the music seemed to be made of colors or people, the physical embodiment of sound, surrounding him and strangling him. But gently. Strangling him gently, in a good way. The best way. 

He hummed again to himself, one last time, and then let the music carry him away. It was so pretty and it was -- Dylan was right. Wow. That alone should’ve been more a warning sign than it was. But Peter didn’t care. Sam hated him and Dylan Maxwell was right and the world was tilting upside down and far, far away from Peter but when Dylan cranked Ye, he could shut off the world and just get lost in the misogynistic lyrics.  

When he opened his eyes, for the third time that day, the sun was back out and Dylan wasn’t there. The music was, however, still there. Peter groggily got out of bed and shut it off. Then he shuffled out of Dylan’s room, looking for the man himself. Instead, he ran into Ms Maxwell. 

“Oh, um. Hello,” he said. He waved awkwardly. 

“Hello, darling.” Then she gave him a hug, which was weird, especially because she kind of held Peter’s head in her breasts? Peter didn’t know how to react, so he kept his arms stiffly at his side and waited for it to be over. 

She let go. “Dylan’s in the kitchen, if you’re looking for him.”  
“Thanks, Ms Maxwell.”

“No,” she said, a little tearfully. “Thank you.” 

Peter fled before she could give him another hug, giving her an aborted half wave. 

Sure enough, Dylan was in the kitchen after all. He was eating a piece of pizza. Wordless, he held it out towards Peter. 

Peter grabbed it. “Thanks,” he mumbled. 

Dylan nodded at him, once, in that cool way where it seems like you didn’t care and weren’t trying that Peter has never been able to master, and then went back to the pizza. 

Tentatively, Peter took a bite. It was -- good. It was -- his mouth was watering, his stomach was growling. He was starving. He took a slighter bigger bite, and then a bigger bite and then - 

“So,” Dylan asked, “What happened between you two, anyway?” 

Peter choked on his pizza. “What?” 

“You and your boy. Whatshisname.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, what happened between you two?”

“Oh, um, it’s a long story. I um, kind of, um. Did something and I don’t think he was very happy with me for, um.”

Oh, dude, I’m sorry,” Dylan replied, ignoring Peter. “Does this mean you two broke up?” He reached out across the counter, trying to envelop Peter into his second hug of the day and honestly -- miss Peter with that shit, Maxwell family. 

Then the rest of Dylan’s word caught up to Peter. “No, uh, we were never -- we weren’t together,” Peter explained. “Did you think --”

“Duh,” Dylan said. “You guys are like married and shit, you know? That’s why I told you that shit about Mac. I knew you would get it. Sam’s your boy like Mac’s my girl, you know?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re gay right?”

Peter blushed. “I - I mean, yes -- but --”

“And you were always, you know, like finishing each other’s sentences an’ shit. Like a fucking a couple.”

“I -” Peter stood stock still, at Dylan’s countertop. “We’re best friends. That’s, you know. That’s why.”

Dylan gave him a disbelieving look. “If you say so, dude.”

Peter gave him a small smile. It was really more of a grimace. 

“What -- what did you do then?”

Peter grimaced. “Just, I was drunk, and I was, I don’t know what I was doing and I guess I like, you know. Kind of like, kissed him or tried to or whatever.”

“For real?” Dylan asked. “Nice one, dude.”

“Not really,” Peter shook his head. “Sam didn’t -- he doesn’t want, you know. I mean, he’s got a -- a stupid boyfriend now. With a stupid name. Alec.”

“Man, that’s a dumb fucking name,” Dylan agreed. 

“I just -- I shouldn’t’ve -- well. It had been, you know, a day. Or whatever. And Madison -- it doesn’t really matter now.”

“This is like some real shit,” Dylan told him and Peter just didn’t know how to respond to that. He had to suppress his immediately desire to laugh. Maybe Dylan wasn’t the worst person to be confiding in -- just the most ridiculous. 

Peter took another bite of pizza. 

And then there was a knock on the door and the both froze. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full YEET this bitch done it was a fight but here she is!! lmk what you guys think and chapter 3 should be up by friday at the earliest and sunday at the latest!! please let me know if you liked it i was keykey lowkey struggling w/ the vibe slash if i should've included certain scenes or not but i was like i just gotta post it into the universe


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, took a year and a half sorry but it is almost ten thousand words so ? hopefully that makes up for things? also whoever wrote that fic where sam was like half jewish on his dad's side ?? a genius i owe you my life for being so correct about everything

**JAN 1ST, 2019**

“You get it,” Dylan told Peter, gesturing at the door.

“What?” Peter asked. “Dylan it’s literally your house.”

“So?” Dylan asked, so Peter went to go get it. For a wild, hopeful and terrifying moment, he thought it might but Sam but -- “Madison?”

“Yo, who is it?” Dylan called out.

“It’s my friend, from college. She was visiting me over winter break but -- I don’t -- how the fuck did you find me, Mads?”

Madison rolled her eyes. “There are two people you talk about from Hanover: Sam and Dylan. It didn’t take a genius to realize you weren’t with Sam."

Peter winced. “I --”

“Just let me in, asshole.”

Peter let her in. Dylan offered her a hit, which she smartly declined and then the two of them immediately set about bonding and insulting Peter’s life choices. Which, fair. Although, unfortunately, that meant Dylan told Madison that Sam called him, like, ten times, dude. And that meant Madison wanted him to call Sam back, which Peter was emphatically not doing and then Peter’s phone rang for the eleventh time.

 

* * *

 

**November 13rd**

Madison tried to convince Peter to download Grindr exactly once, but Peter’s body had just rejected the entire idea so violently that Madison hadn’t brought it up since.

She’d sometimes ask him questions about who he liked or if he was sure he wasn’t madly in love with the white boy who called him twice a day but she mostly left it alone. Peter thought it was both nice and strategic of her.

Because now Peter was the one who wanted to tell her things, who was excited to tell her things. And that meant he actually told her things, which was honestly more horrifying than any prank or vandalism the world could dream up.

There was this kind of cute guy in his English class that Peter would sometimes look at discreetly in class, and then immediately look away blush instead of listening to the lecture and Peter had actually told this to Madison once.

It was horrifying. It made him wonder what sort of person he was becoming.

He tried explaining it to Sam, once, squeaking, “and I’m just telling her things, Sam. Like - who does that, okay?”

“You mean you’re friends with her?” Sam asked, laughing. “Only you, Peter, only you.”

“No,” Peter hissed. “This isn’t friendship this is -- this is serious Sam.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Do you want an actual relationship with her? I know I’ve been teasing you about it, but I didn’t think you actually -- “ Peter waited, but Sam never finished that thought.

Peter rolled his eyes. Sam was missing the point. “Sam,” he said, “you’re missing the point.”

“Which is what, again? You’re making new friends and it’s worrying you?”

“Look -- I don’t -- it’s not,” Peter ground his teeth, wishing he could explain what he meant. “Look, let’s just -- let’s say I liked her, okay -- which I don’t, but let’s say I do.”

“Okay?”

“What would -- what does this -- what does this mean?” Peter asked.

“I think it means you like her, dude,” Sam said.

“No,” Peter said. “No, I mean, like. What do I do next? What do I do now?”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Wait, let me get this straight -- the problem isn’t the feelings you’re having, it’s what you want to do with them?”

“Exactly,” Peter said, relieved that Sam understood him, relieved that Sam didn’t think it was weird that he had a lot of emotions and that he liked to talk them out logically sometimes. And then Peter took another deep breath. It was time he talked to Sam. Really talked to Sam. “We talk about -- guys, sometimes. Like this guy --”

“That’s not the best sign,” Sam interrupted. “That she talks to you about other people.”

“No, it’s not -- it’s me. I talk to her about, you know, guys. And stuff.” It wasn’t his most eloquent moment, but Sam had always, always been able to understand him. Even when no one else could. And maybe -

“Right on, dude,” Sam replied. Peter could hear from his voice that he didn’t get it. He opened his mouth to add something, but Sam spoke again before he could.

“I would say, if you know you’re looking to get closer, if that’s what you want, do some sort of big gesture. I mean, you’ve seen the RomComs, right? You know the moves? Is her birthday coming up, or, like the anniversary of the day you guys met?”

“Anniversary? Sam, we met this fall.”  

“Yeah, dude, no, like the _day_ you met. You know, like say you met on September 22nd. Then your November anniversary would be November 22nd.”

“I don’t think that’s how anniversaries work,” Peter said.

“No, that’s where you’re wrong dude, any day can be an anniversary. Trust me on this one.”

“By definition, though, an anniversary is -- it’s literally the year ago date, like -- it’s the date on which an event occured the previous year, or whatever.”

“Yeah, but Peter, I’m saying you throw out that rule book. I’m saying we make our own rules. I’m saying fuck yearly anniversaries, you have one _tomorrow.”_

“... It’s November 13th, Sam,” Peter replied. “We didn’t meet until late September. I don’t -- I don’t even know the date.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you are devoid of hope and romance and also joy Peter Maldonado.”

“On behalf on all unfeeling robots in the world, I’m going to take that as a compliment. Joy and happiness are merely weaknesses that distract from the ultimate goal of winning,” Peter deadpanned.

Sam snorted. “One day, you’re going to say this shit one day to someone’s who's going to actually believe you, and then they’ll stab you to stop the robot apocalypse.”

“Sam, don’t be ridiculous. There’s not going to be a robot apocalypse. Climate change is going to kill us all way before that.”

“Dude, too real.”

Peter smirked as Sam laughed on the other end of the phone.

“Okay,” Sam said, “but anniversaries and your complete lack of a romantic bone in your aside, you should just -- go for it. Tell her whatever you want to say, you know? Just -- don’t be afraid of like, rejection. Don’t let it go to your head, but you’re actually a pretty cool dude Peter.” And then Sam had to ruin the moment. “Not as cool as me, of course.”

Peter was touched. His tongue caught at the back of his throat. “Thanks, Sam. You were actually -- helpful.”

“You say that like it’s surprising.”

“You say that you’ve ever offered me one good piece of advice in my life.”

“I did! Just now! I offered you one whole good piece of advice!”

“Did you now?”

“I did,” Sam said. “In fact, it’s so good, I’m actually going to take it myself. Kind of.”

“Wait, what?” Peter asked, and for some reason his heart clenched tightly at Sam’s words.

“It’s just,” Sam sighed. “There was this -- person -- in high school, that I really kind of thought I -- liked.”

“Right,” Peter said. “Gabi.”

“Yeah,” Sam said then paused. “ _Gabi_.” There was a weird tone to his voice, one that Peter didn’t really recognize. It might’ve been heartbreak, but even so. Peter felt something small curl up inside him. He wished he could take that away from Sam and make him not in love with Gabi and make him -- no. Peter wasn’t going there.

“But I think -- she -- they -- aren’t really going to feel the same way. Ever. So I think I’m going to like, move on from that.”

“That’s good,” Peter told Sam, even though it kind of made his insides feel jittery for some weird reason.

“I just -- I thought that they’d maybe felt the same way, but. They don’t. I know that. So. I should really just move on.”

“I think that sounds good -- a good idea. In the long run, definitely. It’ll be good for you,” Peter babbled. “I’m -- definitely will be good. Um. Moving on is -- not that I’d know --”

Sam, thankfully, cut him off. “Anyway, dude, did I tell you about this marine biology study group I’ve accidentally joined?”

“What the fuck?” Peter asked. “How? Are you -- you’re not even taking marine biology?”

“I know,” Sam said. “It’s this upper division class. It’s a two hundred person lecture on the introduction of marine biology, with a handful of lab sections. I accidentally went to a lecture, because I thought my class was there during the first day and like, I wasn’t about to get up and leave, right? I had to stay for the whole thing. And then, our professor made us get into groups of ten and exchange numbers so that we’d have a study buddy, because she said we’d need it and --”

“And you just kept going to lectures?”

“No,” Sam protested. “Well. Okay. Sort of. One of the guys -- Alec -- texted me. And then we started texted a bunch and he invited me to the study group, and. Well. They were all super nice!” He defended himself.

“Wait, do they still think you’re --”

“A junior biology major?” Sam asked. “Yes.”

“But -- they are study groups -- are you -- how do you go to study groups for a class you’re not taking?”

“That’s the thing,” Sam explained. “I started going to the classes, so that I could keep up in study group --”

“This is literal madness. I hope you know that. You are spinning a wheel of deception and it will come crashing down. You know that right? You do? I hope you know that. You can not fake being a junior majoring in marine biology for --”

“I mean, technically just one more year. ‘I’ graduate next year,” Sam pointed out.

“Technically a year a half,” Peter replied. “We haven’t even finished out first semester.”

“Whatever, the point is, it wouldn’t be that long --”

“Sam, you absolutely cannot pretend to be a marine biology major for a year and a half.”

“I know, I know,” Sam reassured him. “It’s just -- it’s been about two months. It all kind of -- spiraled. How do I tell them I’m not a marine biology student?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied.

“That’s very helpful, Peter, thanks,” Sam replied sarcastically.

Peter was unrepentant. “What do you want me to say? This is a really bizarre situation that you just got yourself into here. There’s just no stock advice for ‘when you’re friend accidentally joins a study group for a class he’s not in and ends up lying to his friends for two months’ it’s just not a common problem Sam.”

“Well,” Sam replied. “At least I’m unique.”

“I’m glad you can still look on the bright side.”

“Ugh,” Sam moaned. “Peter, I don’t know what to do. They’re all really cool and I liked them and I don’t even know how this all happened.”

“Just -- tell them,” Peter said. “I don’t know. You don’t really have any other options.”

“You’re useless, Peter Maldonado.”

Peter shrugged. “One day, you’ll admit I’m right.”

“Never,” Sam promised.

They continued talking for several more hours, long past when Peter was supposed to be meeting Madison but. She was used to him being late by now.

Eventually, they had to go and hang up. “Oh,” Peter said, just before ending the call. “Make sure to film it.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“You know, when you tell you’re study group you’re not in Marine Bio. I want to use it in my next documentary: Why People Lie and Who They Hurt.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you in your sleep Maldonado,” Sam said and hung up.

Peter left to meet Madison, a smile still on his face.

It was only ten more days until he was going home for Thanksgiving break, which meant ten more days until he got to see Sam in real life and honestly, Peter was excited.

When he got to the boba place, headphones stubbornly jammed in, Madison only looked up at him with a half smile.

“Wow, Peter, almost an hour late. That’s -- what, basically on time for you?”

“I’m not -- we didn’t have concrete plans,” Peter protested. “It’s just like, studying in the boba place. Like we do every Monday, practically.”

Madison ignored him completely. “Were you talking to Sam?”

Peter pursed his lips and didn’t answer, which made Madison laugh. Eventually, Peter relented. “Yes, but --”

“I knew it,” she said. “You’re usually freakishly early places.”

“Okay, to a responsible profession, on time means early,” Peter said with the well worn familiarity of an old argument.

To which Madison, like usual, scoffed. “Peter, you’re seventeen --”

“Eighteen,” Peter interjected, like he always did, “and the successful producer of --”

“- a cancelled television show,” Madison finished and the two shared a grin. Their friends just rolled their eyes, with only Niva even looking up from her homework.

“Whatever, Madison,” Peter teased, “if you don’t want to be a film professional, you know, I understand completely --”

“Peter Maldonado, I swear to God, I’ll --”

“What?” Peter asked. “What will you do to me?”

“I’ll feed you to a shark,” she said. “And then blow up the shark.”

“Why, though? Like -- I’ll already be dead, right? Like, this shark has eaten me, so that’s painful, but it’s over. I’m just dead meat. The shark’s just -- just you’re unwitting accomplice.”

Madison shrugged. “No witnesses allowed.”

“What -- how --” Peter spluttered. “Shark’s can’t speak! What do you think he’s going to do, sit and give a description to the police?”

“If you were a true murderer, you’d know that you can’t take any chances.”

“No,” Peter disagreed, “leaving the shark alive is definitely a chance you should and could take.”

“Tell that to Jaws 2,” Madison said.

“I should take away your film student card for referencing that movie in front of me. You _know_ how I feel about terrible sequels, Madison, you _know._ ”

“What,” she asked, “that you love them?”

Peter looked plaintively at the ceiling. “Why do I bother?” he asked it. “Why do I come down here and try so hard? When I get nothing but hate from my so-called friends?”

“For the love of God, Peter,” Jorge finally spoke up. “You think you get nothing but hate? What about me? You don’t -- you criticize my shirts every day!”

“That’s because they’re terrible,” Niva told him.

“Yeah,” Madison agreed. “You deserve it.”

“You’re just walking around this world looking like that,” Peter agreed. “It needs to get called out. You should feel shame.”

“Never,” Jorge replied. “You guys are just jealous of my mad style.”

“Yeah, we all want to look like aging twinks from the 80s who have been living in the sewers of New York for the past month,” Peter dryly responded. “That’s the look I’m going for.”

Their friend erupted in laughed. Jorge, waiting until the laughter died down, sniffed and said, “Well. I’m glad you’re finally admitted it,” which made Peter laugh.

Peter was still smiling as he pulled his computer out of his backpack. He couldn’t wait to go back home, but he guessed he really was going to miss college. He’d been so worried, but it turned out that college was actually amazing. The best, really.

 

* * *

 

 

**November 23rd, Thanksgiving Weekend**

College around exam time, Peter found, was actually terrible. The worst, really. He did things like studying in libraries and writing essays on subjects he didn’t care about and once he accidentally went a day without eating.

Madison had left her room, come back and thrown a muffin at him when he told her that, which made Peter laugh. Cleaning the muffin crumbs out of his bed was less fun, but kind of delicious, so it didn’t matter anyway.

But now, exams were over, finally, which meant that Peter was heading back home. He hadn’t spoken to his mom in like, multiple weeks, which he did feel bad about. But also, time had just really gotten away from him.

His first stop back was at Sam’s house, which he’d found himself doing every time he came back home -- going to Sam’s.

Sam’s youngest sister got the door.

“Is, uh, Sam here?” Peter asked.

“I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” Amy told him.

“I’m -- I’m Sam’s friend.” Awkwardly, Peter wondered if he should bend down or maybe, like, pat her head or something. Sam had a really big family, which is why they didn’t go over to his house very often.

Amy put her fingers in her ears. “I’m not listening,” she told him. “You're a stranger.”

“Uh, I think that -- if you listened -- I, uh -- promise I’m not -- I really know your brother -- I’m, um, Peter --”

“I’m going to tell my mom if you don’t leave right now,” Amy told him.

“Perfect!” Peter agreed thankfully. “Go get your mom!”

Amy stuck her tongue out at him, but toddled off to do so.

A few seconds later a harried looking woman came into view, apron loosely tied around her waist, hair flying everywhere. “What do you -- oh, Peter.” She smiled widely. “Sam’s upstairs darling.” She turned to glare down at Amy. “Now, Amy, what have I told you about getting the door?”

“I forgot?” Amy tried.

Ms. Ecklund sighed and turned to face Peter. “I’m so sorry, Peter. The principal had a police officer go in and talk to the Kindergartener’s last Friday and she’s been like this ever since.”

“No worries,” Peter said, forcing a chuckle. It did not come out naturally. He clearly his throat awkwardly and then just left for Sam’s room.

“Peter, thank God,” Sam blurted out the second Peter stepped into his room.

“Samuel --”

“Let’s just leave,” Sam said.

“Who -- is that your mom? Why are we -- where are we going -- Sam -- that’s my arm -- why --”

“Peter, please for the love of -- not God -- shut the fuck up and move your ass?”

“I just don’t understand why we can’t --”

Peter’s mom caught up to them at the door.

“Samuel, I know you’re not about to leave with Peter. I was thinking that you boys could --”

“Nope, sorry mom, urgent business,” Sam said immediately, doing his best to propel the two of them out the door, “Peter’s leg is bleeding out, we need to leave for the hospital before it closes, you know how it is with these things, he’s such a drama queen, blah, blah, won’t bore you with the --”

“Hospitals don’t close,” Peter said, helpfully, and got an elbow in the ribs from Sam. “And,” Peter added, smirking evilly at Sam, “I’d be happy to help with -- whatever you’re doing right now.”

Ms. Ecklund smiled at him. “See, Sam? Peter’s a nice boy.”

“I’m a nice boy too,” Sam protested.

“Yeah,” Peter snickered, “nice like a church mouse, right Sam?” which earned Peter _another_ elbow to the stomach but made Sam’s ears turn red which meant he’d won.

“I thought we agreed --”

“You mean you agreed --” Peter disagreed.

“Never to bring that up on the pain of -”

“You telling people about my American Apparel appreciation? Because that boat has sailed, dude, a long time ago, and --”

“Oh, what you mean the time I walked into your house early one day and caught you --”

“Sam!” Peter shouted.

Sam stood there smugly. “I guess that boat’s still docked, huh?”

“I -- would just like to say that -- I think --” he gave up. “ _Your mom’s right there_ ,” he hissed.

Sam smiled beatifically at his mother and waved. “Yes, Peter, I know.”

His mother did not smile back. “Sam, darling, as much as I love listening to this stimulating conversation, the kitchen isn’t going to Hagalash itself.”

Peter blinked. “The -- what?”

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed Peter’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “This is your fault, so you’re going to have to do most of the work.”

“What -- Sam, what are we -- why are we going to the kitchen? Are we going to have to cook? Sam, you know I can’t cook, you wouldn’t make me do that, right?”

“I wish we were cooking,” Said Sam, who was already pulling out a pot.

“Why -- what -- why are you getting out the pots.”

Sam turned on the stove.

“It really looks like we’re cooking, Sam, not going to lie.”

“Here,” Sam replied, ignoring Peter. “Fill this with water and put it on the stove.”

Peter did. When he got back, Sam handed him another pot, and then another, and then another, and then -- “Sam, how much are we cooking?”

“I already told you, we’re not cooking.”

“Then why -- how --” Peter glared at Sam. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Sam answered immediately. “It’s what you deserve.”

Peter groaned. “I’m just going to google it,” he told Sam.

“Good luck,” Sam replied.

“What did your mom even call it again?” Instead of answering, Sam walked over to the silverware drawer while he was talking and grabbed a large handful of knives -- and started walking towards the stove and, coincidentally, Peter. Peter gulped.

 _What it’s called when your friend goes crazy and tries boiling seven pots at one time thanksgiving_ , Peter typed into google. All he got were turkey recipes.

“Peter,” Sam said casually, arms still full of knives. “Do you think you could go grab all the steak knives for me? And any other knives I missed?

“Okay, so like, what -- what are we even -- what are you doing with those knives -- why are you --” with a loud thud, Sam dropped all the knives into one of the pots of boiling water. Peter gibbered at him for a moment before finding his voice. “Are we eating knives? Have you gone insane? Are we putting knives out to boil now so - so - so you can stab someone bloodlessly? Is you’re family really --”

Peter’s voice was starting to reach an unbearable pitch, so Sam did what any other sane person might do and leapt forward -- sans knives -- to clamp his hand over Peter’s mouth. Peter’s heart stuttered. And then --

“Oh my God, you’re disgusting. Did you just fucking lick me?”

“You shouldn’t have put your hand on my mouth.”

“You’re literally a monster.”

“Actually, I’m a good boy. You heard your mom.”

“Oh, my God,” Sam just repeated faintly. “I think I have to boil my hand?”

“You think you have to what?”

“Boil my hand,” Sam repeated.

“Sam, for fuck’s sake, if you don’t tell me --”

“My grandparents are coming over for Thanksgiving,” Sam said, laughing at Peter. “They’re orthodox. So every time they come over -- like, once every five million years -- we have to kosher-ify the whole kitchen.”

“So you boil -”

“Knives, yes.”

“And --”

“Everything else. And we turn the oven on at its highest setting for a few hours and everything else we purge. With fire. Cleansing, cleansing fire.”

“You sound psychotic,” Peter told him because he did.

“Wow,” Sam replied, pretending to choke back a sob. “I can’t believe you hate the Jews.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said dryly. “It’s tragic.”

Sam clutched his heart. “So tragic.”

“And people say I’m the drama queen.”

“What?” Sam shouted, brandishing a handful of spoons this time. “Who says that? Who? They’re right but I’ll fight them for that crown!”

Peter laughed. “Stop brandishing the spoons, idiot, you’re going to hurt someone.”

“You’re the one who's hurting people! With your _words_!”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Should I get the forks?”

“Of course,” Sam scoffed. “And when you’re done -”

“I’ll just move through kitchen appliances until we run out of space,” Peter finished, already getting to work.

“You read my mind,” Sam said, grinning. “It’s like we finish each other’s --”

Peter, very deliberately closed his mouth.

“Fuck you, Peter,” Sam said, laughing. “You’re supposed to say sentences. You asshole.”

“No, that’s definitely you. I mean, you’re kind of the reason --”

“Me?” Sam exclaimed. “Me? I’m the reason --”

Peter carried on blithely. “You’re kind of the reason we’re sitting in this kitchen, boiling literally everything in sight.”

“I can’t believe you right now. I can’t -- what would Anderson Cooper say, Peter? What would Anderson Cooper say about your current display of journalistic ethics?”

“Honestly?” Peter replied. “I think he’d be impressed.”

“Yeah, with how shamelessly you’ve lied just now.”

“No, actually, I was thinking he’d be impressed with my willingness to get my hands dirty and uncover the real reason why Sam wanted to leave his house so badly.”

“Peter,” Sam said in a fondly exasperated tone, “that wasn’t a mystery. I would’ve told you if you asked.”

“I had to be sure,” Peter bravely insisted, puffing out his chest, faux seriously.

Sam just shook his head, and went back to boiling his kitchen. About two hours later, when they were finally allowed to leave, shirts soaking with a combination of the sweat and the steam of the spending two hours in an enclosed room boiling water, Peter was reluctantly ready to admit that Sam might've been right to try to leave when he did.

He’d never say that though. Sam would never let him live it down.

 

…

 

“So, “ Peter asked. “I’m -- We aren’t -- coming to Thanksgiving with you guys this year or anything -- probably -- right?” Peter asked, heart sinking. Sam was shaking his head before Peter even finished the question.

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “They’re never here for Thanksgiving, so. New York -- it’s just a long way for them to travel, and that. And then they’re not really happy with my dad marrying a Catholic. But then again, my mom’s parents weren’t that happy with their daughter marrying a Jew. So group holidays are fun.”

Peter laughed.

“I know,” Sam moaned. “It’s this elaborate dance, each time. Crazy shit. But the kind of nice thing is that all the relatives sort of compete to see who can be the favorite relative? Which is like, mad gifts, right? Only then they realize that there’s solidly five of us and that’s the moment you can really see the hope leaving their eyes.”

Peter laughed. “You’re family could not be more different than mine,” he told Sam.

Sam just threw his head back and groaned. “Don’t even remind me. Our cousins are coming, and Aunt Debbie is just insisting that they stay the night for ‘bonding’ --”

“Aunt Debbie’s the --”

“Alcoholic, yeah. And she’s bringing her kids, which means that John wants to stay the night also, which means --”

“Connor, the twins and Mika are coming?”

“Yep.” Sam popped the ‘p’. “We’re going to have like twenty people sleeping in our house. I think mom wants to just stack them all on top of each other in the basement, but for some reason my dad doesn’t like that idea.”

“Personally,” Peter said, “I blame Aunt Debbie.”

“Personally,” Sam said, “I blame the Catholic church.”

“They do like big families,” Peter agreed.

“You know who else likes big families?”

“Orthodox Jews?” Peter guessed.

Sam shot him finger guns. His eyes looked dead.

“Still,” Peter said. “It’s probably nice having all that family over. Or having all that family.”

Sam’s face softened a bit. “Yeah, when they’re not being such a pain in the ass.” He joked. “I guess they’re kind of alright.”

Peter pushed Sam gently. “You asshole,” he said.

“No, you asshole.” Sam pushed his shoulder back into Peter’s and Peter pushed back and Sam pushed back and then suddenly Peter was sprawling into a new born baby and stammering out apologies while Sam laughed himself sick on the ground behind him.

 

…

 

“It’s funny, you know,” Sam started. “How --”

But he didn’t even get a chance to finish before his phone started ringing. Peter could swear that Sam looked embarrassed when he saw the caller ID.

“Hey,” he said into the phone.

“Who is it?” Peter asked.

Sam shushed him with a wave of his hand. Peter just crowded closer trying to look at his phone caller ID.

“I -- that -- sounds -- hang on one second.” Sam covered the end of his phone. “Peter, stop being weird.”

“I’m not being,” Peter said immediately.

“Yeah, dude, you are.”

“I just want to know who you’re talking to. I think that’s reasonable.”

“I’ll tell you -- “ He turned back to his phone. “No, yeah, I’m still here. I’m just -- just give me another minute.”

He put his hand back over the phone. “Peter, walk like ten steps away, okay. I’ll tell you everything after the call.” Peter nodded sharply and stepped away. He kept listening though.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s him. Peter.”

Who was this stranger that Sam was telling about him?

“Yeah, I’ll probably just call you back later. I’m -- I’m, um, looking forward to it. Okay. Bye.” Sam hung up the phone.

“Dude,” Peter asked, the second he put his phone down. “Who was it?”

“Alec,” Sam said, cheeks bright red, definitely embarrassed now. “My, uh. Boyfriend?”

“You’re -- boyfriend?” Peter asked.

“Yeah?” Sam said, kind of hesitatingly, scuffing at the ground beneath his feet.

“Does this mean --”

“I’m gay? Um, I think so,” Sam told him.

The words Peter knew he should be saying felt like they were clogging up inside his throat. Sam had -- a boyfriend? He was dating someone? “Why didn’t you -- when did you start dating?”

Sam shrugged. “A few weeks ago. I met him in the study group -”

“He’s study group Alec? I thought you didn’t like him?”

“I mean. I changed my mind. Obviously.”

“But you -- why -- why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know,” Sam told him. “It just felt weird.”

“Is he -- a good boyfriend?” Peter asked, and dear God this was so painfully awkward.

Sam laughed. “No, he’s terrible, that’s why we’re making plans for Black Friday.”

Peter felt a painful surge of anger at that idea, but fought it down.

“Oh, that’s good,” he said.

Sam looked far off into the distance.

“So,” Peter added, determined. “What were you talking about earlier? Before we were so rudely -- or welcomely, I guess, -- interrupted by Alex?”

“Alec,” Sam corrected.

“That’s a dumb name,” Peter told Sam. “You should have higher dating standards. Do you really want to be Mr. Alec Ecklund?”

“That’s just not the way last names or marriage works, Peter.”

“Okay, but still. Objectively, quantitatively, you have to admit, Alec is a dumb name.”

Sam waggled his eyebrows. “Or is it a sexy name?”

“It’s definitely not and if you make that face in my direction again, I’m shaving your eyebrows off.”

Sam kind of giggled and they just kept talking, almost like Sam hadn’t said anything. Only when he left, the pit in the bottom of Peter’s stomach seemed to stretch to a full fist size.

It went away whenever he was talking with Sam, or hanging out with him, or making him do stupid jumps off of rocks for ‘footage’ but whenever Sam was gone, the fist was there. Clenching and squeezing.

He was almost glad when school started back up again on December 1st.

 

* * *

 

**December 1st, 2018**

 

He told Madison about Sam’s boyfriend the second he got back. In fact, entering into her dorm the first words out of his mouth were, “So, Sam’s got a boyfriend.”

“Well hello Peter. It’s so nice to see you,” Madison replied. “Why yes, I did have an amazing break. Yeah, the weather was beautiful. It was nice to see my family --”

“Yeah, whatever,” Peter interrupted. “Sam has a boyfriend.”

“You’re such a dramatic gay, Peter,” Madison told him.

“So I’ve been told,” Peter sighed.

“By who?” She asked.

“Sam.”

“Should’ve guessed. Same Same with the boyfriend? I didn’t know he was gay.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Me neither.”

Madison winced sympathetically. “At least you got the chance to come out to him to.”

Peter shook his head.

“You didn’t come out? Why not? I thought that’s what you were planning on doing?”

“I -- “ Peter forgot. “I forgot. Honestly. It was just like being back home and I was going to say it and then Sam said he had a boyfriend and that’s all I could think about and I just forgot.”

“Classic, Maldonado.”

“Fuck you,” Peter said.

“You hate me because I’m iconic,” Madison told him.

“I hate you because you’re a fool,” he corrected.

“I’m a fool? Sorry, whose Thanksgiving break behavior did you come into my dorm to bitch about?”

“Sam’s?” Peter tried.

“Try again,” Madison told him.

“Okay, so it was mine --”

“Thanks you!”

“But that’s not the point! The point is -- Sam has a boyfriend and it’s -- weird. I just -- wanted to update you. But -- let’s -- how was your break? Tell me about that?”

And Madison told him about seeing her family and eating a Tofurky that her mom had stuck in the oven for some God forsaken reason and accidentally burned even though you don’t cook tofu ever and you definitely don’t roast it for an hour and a half at 400 degrees celsius. In return, Peter told her about the three hours boiling random kitchenware.

They talked in Madison’s dorm for a while, before Madison said, “Oh, and also -- where do you live?”

“Say it in a creepier way,” Peter replied. “I dare you.”

“Okay,” Madison agreed. “I’ve been watching you for a while now but I haven’t been able to complete my research of your habits and body. Would you mind telling me where you reside?”

“Oh my God, Madison, I didn’t mean it.”

“Pussy,” Madison said.

“You’re actually disgusting,” Peter told her. “And why do you want to know?”

“Oh,” Madison shrugged. “I was thinking of visiting. Around, you know, New Year’s or something.”

It felt like a giant golden balloon filled with glitter had erupted inside him. Peter had to struggle not to break out into a massive smile. “Really?” He asked. “You want -- to visit me?”

“Yeah, asshole. I’d be so fucking fun.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, no longer holding his smile back. “It would. I -- here, give me your phone. I’ll write down my address.”

Madison happily handed her phone over.

Fuck. Winter break was going to be amazing. Peter couldn’t wait.

“I’m going to have to call Sam about this,” Peter said and then immediately regretted when Madison got that look on her face.

“Let’s call him together,” she suggested innocently.

“No.”

“Peter, why not?”

“No.”

“I’m going to get to meet him over winter break anyway?”

“No.”

“I’ll -- do whatever you want for the next week.”

“N -- fine.”

“Oh, fuck,” Madison said, “I didn’t think that would actually work.”

Peter shrugged. “I know a good deal when I hear one. Plus, imagine the joys of getting through a single week without hearing about your conquests or without ever having to get up to get a book, or cup of coffee or lunch. You’ve given me unprecedented power.”

“It’s amazing how quickly things go to your head,” Madison said.

“They don’t go to my head,” Peter protested. “I’m just -- taking advantage of the situation.”

“I can already tell next week is going to be hell, so let’s fucking call Sam!” Madison announced.

Sam picked up on the first ring.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re not Peter. Unless Peter’s really changed since the last time I saw him.”

Madison laughed. “No,” she said. “I’m Peter’s friend, Madison.”

“Oh,” Sam said, then kind of awkwardly cleared his throat. “So what’re you doing on Peter’s phone?”

“She’s being a terrible person,” Peter contributed from out of sight.

“I am, though?” Madison asked. “I think you’re being the terrible-er person by making me do your laundry.”

“Um, ew,” said Sam. “Peter, why do you want Madison rifling through your dirty underwear?”

Madison laughed. “Oh, shit,” she said. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Like, it is a power move, so, like, respect dude. But also, it is a little weird.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, either,” Peter admitted, talking over Sam. “Um, Madison, please don’t do my laundry,” he told her.

“Wow,” Madison said. “I want Sam around all the time. Sam, you should come just move to LA and live with my and Peter.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already?”

“Besides the obvious?” Peter asked.

“Hey, fuck you,” Sam said.

“Wow, Sam, I think I like you,” Madison said. “I’m glad someone else understands that Peter is an asshole. All his teachers think he’s so studious and sweet.”

“That’s a fucking lie if I ever heard one,” Sam said.

“I’m right here, I’m like literally right here,” Peter said to no one.

Both Madison and Sam shushed him at the same time. “Peter, we’re bonding.”

“Yeah, Peter,” Sam agreed. “Keep out of this. It’s Sam/Madison time, now.”

“Should I just leave you two alone then?”

Sam pretended to think about it. Madison, because she was physically in the room with Peter, took a swipe at him.

Then she turned her attention back to Sam. “So, Sam,” she began. “What are you studying?”

“Not Marine Biology,” Peter answered, which made Sam break out into peels of laughter and ‘Oh God’s’. Madison made the two of them explain the story, and by the time they were done, all of them were on the ground laughing.

“Sam, you are a man after my own heart,” Madison told him.

Sam took a grainy fake bow on the screen. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“No, no,” Peter said. “We don’t reward Sam for this deviant behavior.”

“Peter, don’t be a killjoy,”

“What? I’m not -- Is being logical and sensible person being a killjoy these days?” Peter asked. 

He smirked at them smugly, though this expression changed when Sam and Madison replied that, "Yes, of fucking course it was." 

“See, this -- this right here is why I didn’t want this call. Now you can both -- gang up on me.”

“Wow,” Madison said sarcastically, “poor Peter.”

“Yeah, poor little _innocent_ Peter.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Peter told them, which sent them all back into hysterics.

“We love you, we really do,” Madison said, which seemed to make Sam go pale for a minute but was probably just the video quality.

“Speaking of love,”  Madison asked with a mischievous grin on her face, “How’s your love life? I hear you got a -- Ow,” she added, when Peter stepped on her foot, hard, out of the sight of the camera.

“Uh,” Sam said.

There was a knock of the door.

“Shit!” Madison yelled jumping up. “That’s Jorge. Pete, we gotta go.”

“Yeah, sorry Sam! It’s -- a -- we gotta just go now. Sorry.”

“No problem, dude.”

“We’ll catch you later.” Peter ended the video chat, threw on a light jacket and left for Jorge’s open mic poetry reading.

 

* * *

 

**December 17th**

That was the winter quarter. It was over and done. Peter sat at his desk, feeling a vague sense of accomplishment.

“Dude,” his roommate asked, leaning against the door. “Do you think your coming back next semester?”

“Yeah?” Peter asked more than said, staring at his roommate in shock. It was probably the fourth time they’d spoken, literally ever.

“Tight,” his roommate replied, “same.” And then he left.

Peter turned back to his desk and just laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

**December 30th, 2018**

 

Madison’s flight got into LAX at 11:13am. Peter was there to meet her at 10:40am. He couldn’t believe that she was actually visiting him over the break. He was going to get to show her Hanover, introduce her to Sam, to his mom. And he’d missed her company. A lot actually. What the fuck, it’d only been twelve days since they’d last seen each other.

“Dude!” Madison yelled from the runway, before sprinting over to him and wrapping him into a massive hug. “It’s been like a fucking year and a half since I’ve seen you!”

“It’s been twelve days,” Peter pointed out.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” Madison told his head.

“Please let go of my body,” Peter said instead, and they both laughed, let go, and then hugged again.

“Aw, Peter,” Madison said, with a soft look on her face. “It really is good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, smiling shyly. “It’s good to see you too. Now, come on. I can show you around all day today and tomorrow, but tomorrow there’s this New Year’s party --”

“Is little Peter Maldonado going to a party all by himself?”

“Shut up,” Peter told her. “I go to parties.”

“Yeah,” Madison said. “With me. And you kind of hate it.”

“No, I don’t,” Peter protested. “There was that one --”

“Okay, you _usually_ hate it.”

“They’re _usually_ pretty lame.”

“This is true,” Madison agreed. “They usually do suck. So why are we going to one tomorrow?”

Peter made a face. “Sam’s boyfriend --”

“Oh, right. The boyfriend.”

“- is from, you know, vaguely this area? Sam wouldn’t really tell me, because ‘it’s creepy you want to his exact address Peter when the party isn’t even going to be there’ which, um, no it’s not. Is it?”

“Kind of,” Madison said. “But it’s you. So.”

“Exactly. Sam should be used to it.”

“Not what I meant,” Madison pointed out.

“Oh, I knew what you meant,” Peter assured her. “I just chose to ignore it.”

Madison patted his arm gently. “So you don’t know where he lives … ?” she prompted.

“Oh, right,” Peter said, and continued. “But one of his friends is throwing a party and Sam wants to go and introduce myself to him. The, uh, boyfriend. Of Sam. Sam wants me to introduce myself to his boyfriend. Yay.” Peter did not sound happy with this plan.

“Wow, how horrifically awful,” Madison deadpanned. “Meeting someone Sam likes who isn’t you? Oh wait --”

“Don’t start,” Peter told her.

“But it’s so easy,” Madison whined.

Peter rolled his eyes. “So, you’ve got to help me get as drunk as possible and then you also have to come with me and help me make an early exit. Preferably before midnight.”

Madison held out her hand. “Pinky promise that I will score us alcohol and encourage you to confess your secret gay love for --”

“Jesus Christ, Lord and Savior, grant me - hey, did you know that Sam is actually --”

“Half Jewish? Yes, you’ve only told me a million times.”

“Oh, good,” Peter said. “Then I haven’t told you for the millionth and first time yet. Well, Sam is half Jewish.”

“One day -- one day soon --” she amended, “I will sneak into your bed room and cut all your toes off for my collection.”

“That’s really weird, Madison,” he told her. “I mean, there’s normal weird and then there’s the things you say to me on a regular basis.”

“Ah!” Madison said. “But if I say them to you on a regular basis, aren’t they just normal at that point?”

“No,” Peter answered without even thinking about it.

“But --”

“I refuse to acknowledge a world where anything you say is considered normal,” Peter told her.

“Fuck off,” Madison responded. “I’m very normal.”

“Anyway,” Peter redirected. “The party. One drink. We say hi. We leave. We get drunk on our own. We don’t think about how Alec is good for Sam.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Madison pretended to salute him.

“This party is going to go fine,” Peter said, but it was more to himself out of desperation than anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

**December 31, 2018, 11:37PM**

 

Peter was having a good time. Better than expected, honestly. Kind of probably because Madison gave him daiquiris and definitely not because of Sam's new boyfriend with the stupid name. He didn’t know where she got it, or how it tasted so good, but he took a sip every time he saw Sam and Alec kiss. Or, when that proved to be infrequent, every time they touched. Sam wasn’t supposed to be dancing with an asshole upperclassman. Sam was supposed to be dancing with him. That’s why Peter was mad. No other reason.

Sam had introduced them at the beginning of the night and it had been painfully awkward and then Madison had pretended she had a bathroom emergency. It had been so awkward that even Sam looked relieved when Madison dragged Peter away.

But Peter hadn’t wanted to not hang out with Sam all night. That wasn’t fair. Peter was never here. Alec went to the same school as Sam and got to see him all the time. Alec should really let Peter dance with Sam tonight. It was only fair.

“Hey, Petes,” Madison came up behind him. “Quick question -- why are you death glaring your best friend?”

“No reason,” Peter replied.

Madison gave him a Look. “Peter …” she trailed off.

“It’s nothing,” Peter slurred.

Madison snatched the bottle of alcohol out of his hands. “Tell Auntie Mads the truth, or I finish this off.”

“I’m just -- ugh,” Peter told her.

“There, there.” She patted his head.

“He’s out there dancing and kissing with his stupid boyfriend with the stupid name and he should be dancing and kissing with me -- wait, no, just dancing. I don’t -- why would I -- Shit.” Peter slumped against the wall. “I didn’t mean -- to say -- I didn’t mean that.”

“Really?” Madison asked.

“What?” Peter turned to her, almost shocked. “No, obviously, I didn’t. Sam’s my -- best friend, okay. I’m not -- I don’t.”

“I honestly always thought you did, but if you say you don’t,” Madison shrugged. “I believe you. People used to give me all kinds of shit about my male friends so. I got you, lil dude.”

Peter softly banged his head against the wall. The music was very overwhelmingly echo-y at the moment, and the thought of closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep was sounding more and more appealing. He closed his eyes. “Madison,” he started, and then stopped unsure where to go. “Do I have a crush on Sam?” he asked.

Madison laughed.

“It’s not funny, you -- you -- asshole,” Peter told her. “Stop, like, laughing at my pain and shit. It’s …” he trailed off, then shook himself back into. “It’s mean.”

“Maybe I should’ve taken the bottle away sooner,” Madison teased.

“Oh, fuck you,” Peter mumbled into the wall. “What do I do?”

“You tell him,” Madison said.

“Oh, God,” Peter replied. “No.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“He’s way too cool to like me back,” Peter said immediately, even though he knew that it was ridiculous and that Sam wasn’t cool at all, in any way, except all the ways that he was, to Peter.

Madison snorted.

“And,” Peter added hastily, “he has a boyfriend and I’m not a homewrecker?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Madison told him. “I meant that like -- Sam fucking lights up when you talk to him, dude.”

“What -- what does that mean?”

“Peter. Man. You know you’re a great fucking guy, right? Like you’re a hot piece of ass, okay? You need to go to the bathroom, look yourself in the mirror and say, ‘Peter Maldonado, you are a hot piece of ass’.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Peter waved his hand. “I’m just -- I’m Peter, though,” he told her.

“Peter,” Madison asked. “Am I cool?”

“Yes?”

“And I hang around you, don’t I?”

Peter could see where she was going with this. “That doesn’t mean --”

“No one insults my taste, Peter. No one!” Madison insisted. “You fucking loser, get in that bathroom and tell yourself you’re a hot piece of ass.”

“I -- what?”

Madison stared at him with crazy eyes. “I’m not kidding!” She made shoeing gestures. “Get in that bathroom! I was not kidding Peter. We are getting you better self esteem and then we are homewrecking, okay? In that order and if and if that fails, we are getting very, very, very drunk.”

“Madison, I don’t --”

“Do you have a better plan?” She demanded.

“I -”

“Better plan?” She asked.

“I -”

“Worse plan?”

“I -”

“Literally any plan at all?”

“I - No,” Peter admitted.

“Then you’ve got nothing to lose.”

It might have been the pink lemonade and rum talking, but Peter was alarmed to find that Madison was actually making sense. He thought she might even be -- right.

She pushed him gently. “Go,” she said. “Off to the bathroom. Don’t come out until you’ve said it at least ten times.”

Peter nodded vaguely and then wandered off in the direction of the bathroom. He could hear the countdown starting. One minute to midnight. He found the furthest mirror and sternly looked at his reflection. It looked sternly back. Ugh, his glasses looked stupid. He took them off, but then he couldn’t see his expression at all. Maybe that was better.

“Peter Maldonado,” he sternly told the blurry shape of his face, “you are one hot piece of ass.” That was only moderately embarrassing, which was much better than he thought it was going to be. He said it again.

“Peter?” Sam asked.

Peter whirled around. “Sam!” he yelped, and scrambled for his glasses. “What are you -- I mean, the bathroom but -- what -- you’re missing the countdown.”

Sam shrugged. “Madison told me you were in here, vomiting.”

“Won’t Alec be --”

“Alec can wait.”

Aw, Peter thought. That was almost romantic, Sam ditching his boyfriend at midnight on New Year's because he thought Peter was vomiting in the bathroom.

“I’m, I'm, not doing that. Throwing up. You could probably --”

But Sam cut him off, laughing. His eyes looked kind of bright, and it made Peter wonder what Madison told him. “I can see that,” Sam said. “You’re obviously too busy being a hot piece of ass.”

Peter groaned. “I knew this was a bad idea,” He said. “Really, it’s all Madison’s fault.”

Sam’s smile dimmed immediately. “Oh,” he said, kind of at the ground. “Are you trying to, make a move, or --”

Peter blames the alcohol for what happened next.

“No, I’m -- she’s -- gay.”

“What?”

“We’re gay. We’re both gay.”

“Oh -- I’m -- good. But why didn’t you say anything?” Sam asked. “I mean, earlier --”

“Why didn’t you?” He countered, because that still smarted. “It took you, what, weeks? You’re being -- hyp -- hypo -- unfair,” Peter said. 

 

_ Thirty-nine!  _

 

“What the fuck?” Sam was starting to get angry, Peter could tell. There were two bright spots of red high in his cheeks. “But then -- my boyfriend. And I said -- and you didn’t say anything. Anything. You’re the one who didn’t -- I said something, and you’re just lying -- You -- I -- wish I was more sober,” he said. “You have terrible timing,” he added, and Peter didn’t really know what  _ that _ was supposed to mean. 

“I have great timing, actually,” Peter proclaimed loudly. “You’re -- bad. Always late. Not me, though.”

“You have got to be -- Peter, why are you like this? Why do you have to be -- this way?” Sam asked and hey, ouch. 

“Fuck you,” Peter said. 

 

 _Twenty_!

 

Sam threw his arms in the air and Peter didn’t know how it had gone from a single joke to something more loaded and weirdly tense. “I mean, I’ve been making comments about you and Madison all year and -- she’s a lesbian? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t -- I mean, I wouldn’t’ve -- Alec, I don’t know. If I’d know, I’d -- It would’ve changed things, you know? Just, why?”

Peter didn’t know how to explain that college was so new and that it was scary, and that he didn’t know what to do or who to be without Sam. He just hadn’t wanted things to change. He’d needed things to stay the same between them, just for a minute, just so he could breath. “Because I didn’t -- I just needed -- I didn’t -- want things to change between us,” Peter said, which was true and also, he realized a moment later, a terrible thing to say because he had wanted things to change but he hadn't wanted to lose anything between them and that's what he was scared of, more than anything. Loosing Sam. 

“Oh,” Sam said after a long pause. “Yeah, well. I fucking hope you and Madison are very happy together, then," he kind of sneered, face blotchy and ugly and clearly upset. "I’m -- going to go back to my boyfriend, now. I think you’ve got this,” he gestured around the bathroom. 

“No, Sam, wait,” Peter tried, the night feeling like it was only spinning more and more out of his grasp. “It’s just because, I’m saying that college -- it was new, but like, you were familiar, okay, you knew me. I didn’t want -- “

“I’ve -- Alec,” Sam muttered, looking anywhere but at Peter. “Um.” He took one more look around, “you’re good here, right?” and then left before Peter could even shake his head no.

 

 _Ten_!

 

Fuck. Peter rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know how he kept doing it, saying the absolute worst thing in the world.

 

_Nine!_

 

He had to make Sam understand, Peter liked -- Peter loved him. Oh, God. He loved Sam. Peter had to tell him.

 

 _Eight_!

 

Peter burst out of the bathroom.

 

 _Seven_!

 

He looked around.

 

 _Six_!

 

He saw Sam, in the middle of the room, red light hitting him straight across the face.

 

 _Five_!

 

“Sam!”

 

 _Four_!

 

Sam just shook his head and turned away.

 

 _Three_!

 

Peter pushed his way towards him.

 

 _Two_!

 

What was Sam always saying about romantic gestures again?

 

 _One_!

 

Peter stepped forward triumphantly and then watched as Alec caught Sam from behind, on the last second, and dipped him down into a New Eve kiss. The two of them, wrapped up in each other.

The space started to close in around him, the music loud and piercing.

He stumbled backwards. He really wished he wasn’t drunk. He -- he couldn’t breath. He had to find his way -- find Madison -- he pushed past some other random couple on the dance floor, just trying to keep moving.

Then he felt an arm on his.

“Sam?” he turned around.

It was only Madison, her face serious, and sad. Maybe that was better. “Peter, are you good?” she asked.

“Can we -- do you mind -- I’d like to leave,” he said.

She guided him towards the door to the patio. “What happened?”

“Why’d you -- what the hell, why would you fucking send Sam into the bathroom when I was -- when --”

Her face was sympathetic, but that did nothing to quell Peter’s fury. “I just thought you guys could talk,” she promised. “That’s it. You needed to talk to him and you weren’t going to do it on your own.”

“It didn’t -- I didn’t -- we were _fine_ , Madison. _Fine_.”

“You weren’t --”

“Shut up!” he told her, covering her ears. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but he was sitting outside in the cold and the sky was melting down in flames around him and he didn’t want to think about the night, about the things he ruined.

“I’m -- sorry,” Madison told him.

Peter didn’t respond. She sat next to him for a while, watching the fireworks.

“Can you --” he asked, then stopped. “Why aren’t I sober?” he asked her. “There should be like, a magic button that just makes you sober again, when you’re ready to be done being drunk.”

“You’re right,” she agreed, and hugged him to her. “We can sober up back at my place.”

Peter nodded.

“Just let me get my coat.”

Peter snorted. “That’s a familiar line,” he told her.

“Oh, my God, I’ve only ditched you twice --”

“Once would be too many --”

“For a coat room hook up.”

“Just go get your coat,” he told her, and waited. About five minutes later -- or seven and a half years, if you asked Peter, she came back. Or at least, he thought it was Madison opening the back door.

Peter reluctantly propped his hand up against the wall to leverage himself up. “Alright, M -- Sam?”

Sam was looking at him quietly. “Peter,” he said.

“What --”

“I think I overreacted,” he said. “And I just --”

“Oh, dude, you’re good,” Peter quickly dismissed it.

“Cool,” Sam nodded. “I, uh -”

Now would be, Peter decided, the perfect time to pat Sam on the back. Heartily. Man to man. He took a lunge forward but before he could get very far, gravity intervened.

“Woah!” Sam said, putting out an arm to catch Peter. Their chests touched. Peter froze. Slowly, carefully, Sam guided him back to the wall, hand burning prints into his waist. Peter looked sideways and caught Sam’s eye. Sam didn’t let go of his waist.

They stood there, pressed up against each other, backs to the wall. Peter was unable to look away.

Wow, he thought. It would be so easy for him to just kiss -- and then he was. He was leaning forward, gently pressing his lips against Sam’s, until Sam started to respond and Peter’s chest start to inflate with a warm glow and then --

Sam was pushing him away. Sam was standing in front of him, breathless, checks bright red. “W-what are you doing?” he asked. “I have -- a boyfriend.” He seemed shellshocked, almost like the words he was saying were surprising himself.

And just like that, the warmth that had started to rise in Peter plummeted. He felt like he might actually throw up this time. “I --”

“Peter, I found -- oh,” Madison stopped where she was, and tried to step back inside.

“No, wait,” Peter said. He turned to Sam. “I’ve got to -- yeah. Bye.” And he stepped, more nimbly than he thought he was capable of, around Sam and towards Madison and the door and oh God, he had to leave, he had to leave _now._

He didn’t say a word on the way out, just silently calling a lyft to Dylan who -- who wasn’t his mom and wasn’t Sam and wouldn’t ask questions -- while Madison just pressed her arms around him in a quiet hug. Oh, god, he really was going to throw up, wasn’t he?

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter probably coming over the weekend!! thanks everyone for all ur comments I've been having such a shit week & it was amazing to hear!! i hope you guys liked the chapter -- lmk what you think here on on my tumblr avpetermaldonado!! & have a fucking great november love y'all! <3


	4. Chapter 4

 

Going to college was the first time in four years that Sam wasn’t with Peter. It was the first time in two years that he wasn’t living with Peter. It was the first time since starting high school that Sam wasn’t talking to Peter twenty-four seven and that was probably the hardest part. College was the first time Sam not only felt alone but  _ was _ alone. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t know who he was without Peter or that he was so defined by his -- sure, crush, or whatever -- on Peter. He knew who he was outside of Peter, outside of being hopelessly in  _ like-like _ or whatever with Peter. It wasn’t that. 

It was that he didn’t want to be that person and he didn’t know why he even had to.  

He didn’t want to be the person that wasn’t around Peter. 

Sam didn’t -- he’d thought, sure, Peter was hot and sure, he made Sam’s stomach flip and flop but he hadn’t -- he hadn’t been in love. 

He’d loved Peter, obviously, and definitely liked him too, but he hadn’t been in love with him. He wasn’t -- Sam was alone, now. In college, alone. And, you know, maybe that wasn’t such a big deal, or anything, or it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Only it was a big deal, for him and only it wasn’t just a crush, because Sam wouldn’t feel like this for just a crush, he was pretty sure. 

Okay, so the last time he’d had a crush -- a serious crush, because that’s definitely what it was looking like this thing with Peter was, in spite of Sam’s best efforts, in spite of literally  _ all _ of his efforts -- was middle school. And then he’d gone to high school and met Peter and more or less forgotten Elijah, except for some of the times. And even then it wasn’t in a pining way, or a missing him way but in those vague ‘oh, yeah, him’ sort of ways. 

But now, sometimes he’d think about Peter and it would kind of make his chest hurt and his head feel kind of funny and Sam was just not having that. 

Then, it struck him that he guessed he kind of thought this would be easy for him. That Peter would have a hard time and that Sam wouldn’t. And Sam would get to be there for Peter, because that’s kind of the way it had always been. But Sam was having a hard time. Sam didn’t know anyone -- and no one knew him. 

So, he spent a lot of time working in the library or in his dorm, with his douchebag roommate. 

Ugh, Sam shouldn’t say that. They’d learned all that bullshit about not prejudging books, or whatever, but seriously. 

When Sam got to campus the first move in day, Konrad had been there, sticking his tongue down some short girl’s throat in the doorway. “Um,” Sam said, and cleared his throated. “Can you move?”

The look Konrad had shot Sam could’ve reversed the deep sea thermohaline current it was so salty. 

“It’s my room, too, dude, so can you just chill?” 

“Yeah, of course, no problem. I’ll get out of your way.” Sam left immediately, feeling like his balls were dangling somewhere around the fucking inner mantle of the earth. God, he hoped that wasn’t really his roommate, or that he could move. Did they allow room changes before the first day of school? Did they allow room changes at all? Sam hoped so. 

Sam went to the common area with his suitcase. This was bad. He definitely should’ve waited for his mom and sisters, but he’d wanted to see his room. Which really hadn’t worked out that great for him so far, but hadn’t  _ entirely _ failed. 

Oh, who was he kidding. It had failed. Konrad made it fail. 

“Sammy?” Lexi asked, peering around the corner. “Where’s your room?”

“Oh,” Sam said miserably. “Around.”

“Sam!” Lexi snapped. She was only two years younger than him, which was why Mom was making her help Sam move in. “Don’t be a little bitch.”

“Lexi,” his mom, reproving. “Don’t call your brother a little bitch.”

Sam stuck his tongue out at Lexi. She stuck her tongue back out at him. Their mom stepped around the corner, and Sam and Lexi both stopped immediately. 

“Now,” his mom began. “Where’s this room of yours?”

“Around the corner,” Sam said. “213.”

“Why’d you tell mom and not me?” Lexi complained, but no one responded, all of them trudging after Mom. Sam stayed behind Lexi and their mom by a good two or three feet, which was why he wasn’t able to see his mom’s reaction to Konrad. He had a pretty good idea what it looked like, though. 

Mouth pursed disapprovingly, eyebrow raised, gaze flat and unfazed. “Well,” Sam heard his mom say, “we’ve certainly made it to college, haven’t we? Sam!” she called his name. 

Sam pushed his way through. 

“If you don’t mind?” his mom asked Konrad in a way that only made it sound like she was asking, even though she clearly wasn’t. 

Konrad glared at Sam and then stepped away. 

Sam smiled tightly and nodded at him. Konrad did not return the gesture. 

“Wow,” Lexi whispered to Sam. “He does not look nice.”

“Lexi,” Sam hissed back, “not helpful.”

Lexi just shrugged, but she also looked proud of herself. Sam sometimes hated having so many sisters. 

Konrad and his -- friend -- hung around for a few minutes, before the girl leaned over and whispered something in Konrad’s ear and they both left. 

“Wow,” Lexi said. “So how much you wanna bet they’re going to fuck?”

“Lexi,” their mom said again, in a tired voice, making no other protests.

Lexi was unrepentant. “What?” she asked. “You both saw him.”

“Unfortunately,” Sam said. 

“Hey, just because you’re gay --”

“What?” Sam interrupted. “How’d --”

“What?” Lexi asked, looking at him blankly, before saying the worst thing Sam ever heard in his life. “Our walls are too thin for the sort of porn you watch.”

“I -- don’t --”

“Lexi,” their mom repeated. “Don’t bully your brother over his porn habits.”

Lexi held her hands in the air. “No bullying, just --”

“Have you been able to hear the entire time?” Sam asked. “Like -- everything?”

“You mean when you’re jacking it --”

“Lexi, don’t say jacking it --”

“Sorry, masturbating?” Lexi paused for one whole horrible moment. “Yeah, but I usually leave when I hear, you know. Porn.”

“Oh, God,” Sam said, face completely red. “This is actually the worst day of my life.”

“Sam, don’t be so dramatic.” Both Sam and Lexi completely ignore their mother, like usual. 

“Yeah, it really wasn’t a great day for me either. I was like eleven or something, okay, so it took me a  _ while _ to figure out what was going on.”

“Oh, God,” Sam repeated. “Someone, take me out. I want to die,” he said, very seriously. No one responded to him. 

Their mom sighed. “Lexi, if you insist on talking about porn, could you at least be unpacking some of these boxes while you do it?”

Lexi groaned. “Fine. God, Sam, you owe me for this. You have to move me in if I end up going to college.”

“I’m literally not doing that,” he told her. “Oh God,” he said a third time. “How is this my life?” His mind was replaying the word porn in all caps neon pink and purple and Sam really found he was incapable of thinking of literally anything else. Why did it have to be Lexi? 

“Mom!” Lexi turned to their mother. “Why do I have to --”

“Sam,” their mother said immediately with a hint of desperation. “You’re going to help your sister move in to college.”

Lexi smirked at him. 

Sam, recovering his wits slightly, smirked back. “Of course!” He said. “I’d love to meet all your friends,” Lexi’s smirk drained away, “and say to people all your hall and come visit you all the time --”

“Mom!”

“Lexi!” Their mom snapped back, finally. “If you don’t start unpacking and stop complaining, I’m going to make your brother chaperone you to prom.”

Lexi pressed her lips shut with a pop and started attacking Sam’s boxes of stuff. Sam closed his eyes and  _ tried _ to ignore the fact that his younger sister apparently knew the kind of porn he watched and started helping her unpack boxes. 

As a result, he put all three of his pillow cases over his corner desk. Twice. 

Suffice to say, he was not very successful at ignoring Lexi’s porn bombshell.  

Sam had five sisters, three older and two younger. His oldest sister lived in Portland with her boyfriend. Sam didn’t know her very well, but she always sent him monogrammed socks and floral sweaters that she made herself, so. She was pretty cool. 

Lexi, however, was the second youngest which meant that by the time Mom got around to birthing and raising Lexi, her parenting style had eased off the brakes a little. And by a little, Sam means a whole fucking lot. 

For example, it’d only taken him about twenty minutes to convince his mom to let him take the year off of school to film a documentary about shit with Peter in Washington. Like a literal documentary about  _ literal _ feces. In another state. 

He and Peter’d even gone to visit his sister once, during the filming process. It had been really nice, even though his sister kept asking him why he and Peter weren’t dating. 

Sam had never really came out or anything to his family, but he kind of -- assumed they all already knew. Or that they would, you know. Figure it out eventually. He’d tell them when he had a boyfriend which. Never really happened in high school. 

Honestly, if it hadn’t been for one Peter Maldonado, Sam wasn’t sure he’d have even known that he was gay. Or at least, he certainly wouldn’t have known it his freshman year of high school. He might’ve even crushed on Gabi in some sort of display of extreme denial.

And the stupid thing was that it’s wasn’t like there was anything immediately special about Peter the first time Sam met him. 

Or the second time, or the third time, or the fourth. It wasn’t the fifth or the seventh or the thirtieth time either, that Sam developed this thing he had for Peter, but sometime in between all those meet ups and hang outs and movies. It was watching him editing together pieces of the morning show. It was the awkward way he seemed to carry himself, where he wasn’t really sure of his body or himself, but he was determined to be there anyway. 

It was his laugh. It was the way Peter seemed to actually understand him. It was spending hours alone with him every day of his sophomore year, filming and editing  _ American Vandal _ . 

Sam sometimes wished that his crush on Peter had been immediate. That he could say that he’d seen Peter’s rocking bod and developed a lust filled infatuation that he got over eventually. And that was the key -- Sam didn’t know how to even start going about getting over Peter.

Because this? It was slow and it was lunches every Tuesday and Thursday, and it was early days on the Morning show and it was the way Peter’s hair looked like when he hadn’t showered or slept in two days and Sam didn’t know how he was going to get over this, which was pathetic and sad and all of that, but. He really didn’t know. Peter was his best friend. And that still wasn’t fucking enough. 

And Sam -- he tried. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say something so badly. The first time they called -- Friday night, after settling in -- Sam had thought about doing, well. Saying something. 

But. Peter was having such a good time in college -- he loved it, and he had friends and party invites and engaging classes and a new sense of purpose and a new girl who sounded so cool even when Sam wanted to hate her. 

Sam was not having a good time in college. 

Sam was having a hard time in college, and Peter -- Peter never seemed to give any indication that he might like Sam like that, so Sam just gave up, a little bit. 

For fuck’s sake, his best example of a platonic relationship was the two of them, which really should’ve been more of a hint that it was. 

Sam tried to ignore that, though. He thought maybe it was just -- a stupid thing Peter said, even though it definitely wasn’t and Peter definitely didn’t and wouldn’t ever see him that way. 

But -- he and Peter would talk just about every night on the phone. Sam knew that was weird, no matter what Peter said. 

Gabbi thought it was a weird, his marine biology study group thought it was weird, Konrad thought it was a really weird -- but fuck Konrad, anyway. 

Sam had tried to bring it up with Peter once -- “Pete, is this weird that we call each other every night? Like, why can’t we just text?”

“Because texting is boring?” Peter asked. “I don’t know, Sam. Do you want to hang up?” 

“What? No,” Sam protested, too quickly. 

“Then why are you asking?”

“I was just, you know, wondering if it was weird.”

“That’s weird,” Peter told him, jokingly. 

“Your face is weird,” Sam replied. 

“You’re so clever and witty, Sam.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied. “I know. I appreciate you telling me, but. I already know.”

“And humble,” Peter added. 

“I’m so glad someone gets it,” Sam said, smiling. He could almost hear Peter rolling his eyes over the phone, which was the one major downside to the phone calls -- he didn’t get to see Peter. But if calling every night was weird, video chatting every night would be even weirder, so. 

“Gets what?” Peter was asking. “That you -- that you’re a egomaniacal, basic hoe?”

“Did you just call me a hoe?”

“I -- mean -- look, you are -- it’s an expression --”

“No one’s said the word hoe since like 1992, Peter - ” 

“It definitely hasn’t been that long, and, and anyway --”

“I mean, you’re basically just saying I sleep around, right? I mean, you’re just kind of implying I get laid, like, constantly --”

“Sam,” Peter struggled valiantly to regain control of the conversation and his sanity, “I -- don’t -- women --”

“Which, weird flex, but like, okay dude. I’ll take it.”

Peter groaned. “You’re such a slut, Sam.”

“Oh, yeah, baby,” Sam replied without thinking and then immediately regretted. What if --

“Why are you like this?” Peter asked. 

“Hm,” Sam replied, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.” 

“I worry about you,” Peter told him. “What would you even say, if memes didn’t exist?”

“Thankfully, we don’t have to live in that kind of world,” Sam replied, which made Peter laugh which made Sam feel warm inside which was just a terrible cycle, honestly and lead to horrible things like filming himself doing investigative journalism into circumcision that he let Peter broadcast to an entire school of his peers for some ungodly reason. 

“What are you doing for winter break?” Peter asked him, interrupting his train of thought.

“Dying,” Sam said. “Slowly and painfully from overeating.”

Peter didn’t sound amused on the phone. His “thank you” was scathing. 

Sam pouted. Sam really thought that Peter’s greatest flaw was his inability to recognize Sam’s genius. “You know, Peter,” he began. 

Peter, however, interrupted immediately. “My greatest flaw is not not being able to understand your genius Sam.”

“Wow, Peter Maldonado using a double negative? What would Ms Wents say?”

“She’s an understanding soul,” Peter said, referring to their ninth grade english teacher who sometimes through small pieces of chalk at students who fell asleep in class and who made them leave class if they used the word ‘like’ three times. 

“She is not an understanding soul,” Sam corrected. 

“You’re just mad because she liked me better than you.” This was true; Ms Wents had loved Peter in a way that kind of bordered on creepy in Sam’s opinion. 

“Dude, she wanted to like cryogenically freeze your sperm --”

“Ew, dude, why would you even think that -- what’s wrong with you --”

“It’s not me,” Sam protested. “Ms Wents was a creepy, okay --”

“Ms Wents was a perfectly nice --”

“Perfectly nice my ass,” Sam scoffed. 

“Perfectly nice lady who wouldn’t freeze anyone’s sperm let alone mine because what the fuck Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “This is what I mean when I say you don’t understand my genius,” he said, and let Peter sputter into a rant about Sam’s lack of any intelligence let alone genius. It was cute when Peter got all passionate and rage filled. 

Which, like, Sam should, like, do something about that. Like, for real, though. 

He didn’t, though. He told himself -- he told himself that he was going to make a move over Labor Day weekend. 

He’d even invited Peter out to coffee, which he never did, so. It was kind of a date. Even though Peter didn’t know it was a date, or think it was a date, it kind of was. In Sam’s mind. He would tell him then. 

Only, instead, they’d talked and Sam had -- said nothing. And then they’d gone outside, and they’d just stood there, warm in cold, shoulders touching and Sam had watched Peter watch the sky and thought,  _ God, he’s beautiful  _ and said nothing. 

He’d let Peter go home and then go back to college without saying anything.

That when he decided to move on. Peter was -- too important, for Sam to ruin things. He’d known, kind of, that Alec liked him, because Alec would kind of brush his arm sometimes or bring him cookies or ask him to dinner. 

Sam usually didn’t really say yes, but one night in the middle of November, after a long call with Peter instead of doing his comparative politics reading, he did. 

It actually wasn’t bad. Alec was kind of funny, in a nerdy sort of way. And he was really into science and math, which were two things Peter wouldn’t be caught dead studying. He played soccer and spoke Spanish and studied abroad in Peru off the coast of the Amazon, researching marine biodiversity. 

He was also hot. 

So Sam said yes, because it’s not like anyone else was lining up to ask him out and because he needed to change something and then he found out, along the way, that he actually maybe liked Alec a bit. 

And then Peter kissed him, and everything went flying out the window. 

  
  


* * *

 

**January 1**

 

Peter doesn’t call Sam back that night. He put his phone and silent and refused to check it. 

Unfortunately, Madison didn’t have the same qualms, fears or anxieties, and checked it every five seconds. She and Dylan had a whiteboard tally going of how many times Sam had called him. It was pretty high. 

It all came to a head on the seventeenth call. 

“Why don’t you just pick up the phone?” Madison asked. 

“Yeah,” Dylan added, “Me and Mac --”

“Sam and I are not you and Mac!” Peter exploded, abruptly. “You and Mac -- you aren’t even together right now, okay, so I don’t know-- I don’t know why you’re holding that relationship up as some sort of goal when -- when -- when -- she was clearly cheating on you --” Peter stopped himself. 

The room was silent. 

“Dude,” Dylan said. “This is like, my house and shit. That shit’s not cool.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said immediately. “I’m just --” he sighed. “Look, I just don’t want to pick up the phone because I know what Sam’s going to say.”

“Oh,” Dylan nodded wisely like he knew exactly what Peter was talking about. “Sometimes me and the Wayback Boys do that, like I’ll tell them some shit I’m going to say and what they should say, like what Kiefer Sutherland might say, you know?”

“Whose --”

“Don’t ask,” Peter cut off Madison before she could finish her question because God forgive him he loved Dylan but if he had to hear about Kiefer Sutherland one more time he would be the one committing felony vandalism. 

“Why don’t you just call him?” Madison asked. “What do you mean, you know what he’s going to say?”

Peter gave a short, frustrated huff. This is why he’d gone to crash at Dylan’s, because Dylan didn’t really question things all that often and  _ never _ really questioned Peter. “I just, it’s going to be the whole ‘blah, blah, blah I’ve got a boyfriend blah blah won’t change anything blah’ and I just -- want to -- I don’t -- I want to hold off on, you know, that whole conversation. For like another day. At least. I -- yeah.” 

Madison softened a bit. 

“Dude,” Dylan said, “Sam wouldn’t say any of that.” Peter looked up at him hopefully. “Sam wouldn’t say anything, dude. He’s even more uptight than you, which is, you know, saying a lot. He keeps it like, the opposite of real.”

“Thanks, Dylan,” Peter said sarcastically. 

“Also, that shit always affects friendships. I’m just saying!” he added when both Madison and Peter shot him a dirty look. “It does.”

“Okay, so that’s an even better reason not to call,” Peter pointed out. 

“No, dude, like, it’s not, though. You miss him, right? And you like can’t do any of the old shit, right? So you, like, might as well do whatever because everything is already ruined. Like it’s over and you can’t, like, go back in time like they do in that movie. Which totally sucks, because I would definitely go back in time and like, not get blamed for the dicks. But I gotta suck it up, and like, so do you, dude.”

Peter hadn’t thought about it like that. 

“Yeah,” Madison agreed quickly, eyes widening meaningfully. “At this point, you’ve got literally nothing left to lose. Because you’ve already lost it.”

Peter winced. 

“Um,” Madison said quickly. “Not in a bad way, though?”

“Can you lose everything in a good way?”

“Not only can you, but you did. Just now. Last night.”

Peter sighed. “I don’t -- it’s -- he’s got a boyfriend --”

“A fact you didn’t really seem to care about much last night --”

“Yeah, when I was four daiquiris in --”

“Peter!” Madison said. “You have nothing to lose. You should just -- tell him.”

Peter squared his shoulders miserably. “I -- don’t --”

Peter’s phone rang again. The three of them froze, staring at it. Waiting it ring seven times and then fall silent. Slowly, Madison reached for it. 

“He’s left a voicemail,” she said. 

“What?” Dylan asked. 

“What?” Peter echoed. 

She turned the phone towards them. Sure enough, right next to what Peter could only assume was the voicemail icon was the number one. 

“Do we … listen to it?” She asked. 

Peter looked around. “I think --” he held out his hand for the phone. “I’d better do it?” 

Reluctantly, Madison handed it over. Peter left the room. After two minutes, Madison started to get restless. After three minutes, Dylan was pacing. 

“Dude, why’d he leave?”

“I don’t know,” Madison said. “I think for like, privacy. Or something.”

“That’s fucking dumb,” Dylan said. 

Madison tapped her foot anxiously. “Yeah,” she agreed softly. “Only, I don’t really think it is. I think, you know, it’s something Peter needs to -- Peter!”

Peter was back. He was pale, and withdrawn. “I think I need to talk to Sam,” he said. 

“What --”

But Peter was already shaking his head. “I should -- I think I’ll -- we’ll meet up, and. That’ll be -- that.”

“That’s good,” Madison said encouragingly. 

“What’d the voicemail say?” Dylan asked, blithely unaware of the tension in the room. 

“Oh,” Peter said. “Stuff.”

“I hear that,” Dylan said, nodding. “It’s like, that’s all girls talk about. Not that Sam is a girl, just that, you know. He’s your girl. Your boy.”

“Yeah,” Peter said distractedly. “Can I spend one more night here?”

Dylan shrugged. “Just let me ask my mom.” He turned over his shoulder. “Mom!” he yelled. “Peter and his friend are spending the night!”

“Dylan --” his mom comes bustling out from somewhere in the house. “I don’t even -- what are their names?”

“Mom!” Dylan complained. “You like, know Peter super well and I don’t know his friend but she’s fully like a lesbian, okay, so just be cool. It’s just not cool and shit if you don’t let them stay, it’s like homophobic or some shit, okay?”

“Okay,” his mom agreed. “Just don’t -- I don’t know -- ruin anything? And let me know if you --”

“Mom!” Dylan whined. 

She held up her hands. “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said once she’d left. “My mom just told me you could stay.”

“... I know,” Peter said after a pause. “I was there.”

“Yeah, dude, but you might’ve still not known, or something. Whatever, let’s just get to my room. I have more weed.”

“I think I’m good --” 

The three of them continued walking down the hallway to Dylan’s room, where Dylan and Madison lit up. No one said another word about Sam, and no one said anything when Peter practically fell asleep staring at his phone screen.

 

* * *

 

**January 2nd, 2019**

It was one of those rare, cloudy Southern California days that Thursday morning. It wasn’t raining anymore, just wet and cold and still. Peter was wearing his rattiest jacket and a shirt from Dylan and he was pretty sure his sneakers had a least one hole in them. He hadn’t showered, he realized, probably in three days. Two at least. His eyes were bloodshot, his hangover had faded to a persistent but dull ache and his glasses had some sort of scratch he couldn’t remember getting, all over his left eye. 

No time, Peter thought, like the present to confess your deeply repressed and definitely unrequited feelings. 

When Sam’s car pulled up, Peter’s traitorous heart skipped a whole two beats, which like. Fucking unfair. Where’d it get that hope from anyway? 

As Sam got out of the car, the tapping in his heart turned into a palpable dread that settled over the air. Peter’s stomach clenched rhythmically. Sam’s hair was gelled up, his clothes were neat, clean and all three primary colors, which he was somehow pulling off. His eyes scrunched into that squinty worried look when he first saw Peter, at least until he remember that he was supposed to be mad at Peter and crossed his arms. 

Peter took a deep breath. Then he looked down. This was going to suck. He tried to do Dylan’s casual headwave but couldn’t really bring himself to look at Sam for longer than 0.01 of a second and kind of just ended up looking like a psychotic seventies headbanger. “Hey,” he said quietly, to the ground. 

Sam nodded back. “Hey, Peter.” 

“How are things with you?” he asked, because he was an idiot sometimes. 

“Um, good,” Sam said, awkwardly. “And, um, you?”

“Great,” Peter said, then regretted it. “Or, well, not -- not great, just. You know. Good. Normal. It’s really been raining lately, hasn’t it?”

Sam gave him an incredulous look like he couldn’t believe Peter was really doing this, standing in front of him and making small talk about the weather. “Yeah, I guess this whole global warming thing is kind of a hox after all,” he tried to joke. It was silent after that. 

“That’s, that’ll -- that’ll be good for, you know. The almonds.”

“The -- what, Peter,” Sam finished, awkwardly. 

“You know,” Peter explained unhelpfully, shrugging his shoulders. “The almonds. They need, like, a lot of water. Or something.” 

Sam looked like wanted to strangle him and honestly, Peter didn’t blame him. If he could stop talking right now, he would. 

“What do you -- do you like almonds?” Peter asked, already wincing before he even heard the words come out. “Madison --”

“Oh, my God,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “I’m so done hear about your new best friend, I am so --”

“Hey,” Peter said, stung. “Why?”

“What?” Sam asked. 

“Madison is super cool,” Peter replied. “Why are you -- why do you get so mad when I bring her up?”

Sam looked -- something crossed his face that Peter couldn’t read. “I --” he started. “Dude, you talk about her all the time. I thought you guys, were, you know, dating -”

“We’re not,” Peter said, reflexively. Then he swallowed. He was going to -- he had to --

“I know that now,” Sam said, “But then it was like -- “

“And even if, I, I -- we’re gay - which, you know --”

“Yeah, dude, I know, but it’s just -- you told me last night and -”

Peter took a deep breath, and forced himself to keep talking over Sam. “And even, if, you know. She was straight, or I was, or whatever it’s -- it wasn’t -- it’d be you.”

“And I guess I was just --” Sam stopped. “I -- what?” his voice squeaked the first time, so he had to clear his throat. “What?” There were two high spots of red on his cheek bones. 

Peter looked back down at the ground. “It’s actually you that. I think I like. I’m sorry if -- for kissing --”

“It’s what?” Sam interrupted, his face twisted up into something weird.

“Um,” Peter said. 

“Me?” Sam asked. 

“Um,” Peter said again, but this time he nodded, and then shrugged. “Yeah.” He scuffed the ground in front of him. 

“You asshole,” Sam told him, unexpectedly, making Peter finally jerk up to look at him. Sam’s -- he’s grinning which don’t get him wrong, Peter absolutely did not understand, but which his heart skip a beat anyway. “You like  _ me _ ? Like, you kissed me because you -- because  _ me _ ?” 

“Um.” Peter nodded quickly, glancing at Sam kind of out of the corner of his eye. He wondered if there was anyway to snap sound out of his. “You’re starting to sound like a parrot,” he said. 

“I have a boyfriend,” Sam told him, so it kind of worked. “you asshole.” But he’s really smiling now, with an animated sort of joy, lighting him up inside. “You -- you have the absolute  _ worst _ timing, Peter, honestly.” 

But his voice was fond -- unbearably so -- and Peter began, for a second, to feel something other than blanket dread. 

“I - I do?” He mostly sort of asked. 

“I can’t believe you were going to make me break Alec’s heart -”

“ _ I _ can’t believe you willing went on a date with someone who calls you Alec,” Peter muttered, rolling his eyes, until the meaning of Sam’s words hit him, “-- wait, sorry, shit. You’re trying to -- at least I think -- you might not be even -- I should --” 

And then, thankfully Sam kissed him and Peter could stop talking. And, holy shit, was it nice but -- 

“Wait, wait, what about -- Alec --” Peter panted. 

“He dumped me last night,” Sam told him. “After you’re little ‘stunt’.”

Peter opened his mouth. “Shit, Sam. Sorry. I --”

“It’s okay.” Sam smirked at him. “I think he could tell that I was still carrying a torch for some dense fucking college kid with the social skills of a cocooned larvae.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Who --”

“You asshole,” Sam repeated from the third time. Peter hopped that this repeating kick Sam was on wasn’t going to become permanent. It wasn’t unattractive, but that was only because everything Sam did was attractive. “It’s always been you,” Sam said. “Not Gabi. Not Alec. It’s always been you, Peter.”

And then, surprising even himself, Peter grabbed Sam’s hand. “Good.” 

Sam laughed at that, until Peter chased his laughter away from another kiss. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ “Uh, hey, uh, Peter. It’s -- uh, you probably know. Sam. It’s Sam. Uh, I don’t know -- why I’m leaving this, but um. You’re -- college was so bad without you, dude, okay. So, like, I don’t know. Don’t worry about -- whatever, okay? Just call me back. We don’t even have to talk about kissing or whatever -- I mean, I know I just talked about it, but. Never again. Promise. Just, um. Give me a call. Um, please? Sometime. Or, um, you don’t have to, but. I - I miss you, okay? Or, um. Actually. Ignore that. And just. Bye. Sorry.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's finally done!! ive been having one of the worst months && the thought of writing this fic && getting everyone's fucking beautifully kind && amazing words has just honestly been life saving so thank you so much for sticking with me & finishing this up & pls. let me know what you think. <3

**Author's Note:**

> fuck netflix honestly but also please!! lmk what you think, i'm on tumblr at avpetermaldonado ALSO I'm mostly done w/ part 2 so it should be going up like next week sometime 
> 
> <3 
> 
> oh! title is from barenaked ladies 'if i had a million dollars' perhaps the most sam/peter song ever


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